#Razor is all sharp points and jagged lines

[bubblybloob]

Hey guys? I think there’s something wrong with Damsel-

Link to meme below

[elikajinnie]

Cold Touch, Sharp Mirror - P.S

P: Dead By Daylight Killer!Sunghoon X Survivor!Reader (recommended age 17+)

Warnings: Death, Murder, Suggestive Content, Blood/Injury, Obsession, Chasing, Fixation, Temperature Play?

Synopsis: You’ve always liked snow, but you never liked the idea of being chased through it—too loud, too slippery. Luckily, the Entity’s maps were more muddy than snowy. That is, until a new killer arrived, bringing with him a snowy map. And it seems like he’s fixated on finding the perfect beauty to complement him and you're exactly what he’s looking for.

a/n: im so happy my pookies @aceheexx and @concerned-terrapin got dbd :3 also i went a bit overboard with the ending???

heeseung version | jay version

now playing: like a dream by thomas larosa | frzzn by ozzie | chills -dark version by mickey valen

--

Now, normally, you loved snow. Back before you were taken by the entity, you’d always be thrilled when it snowed—watching the snowflakes drift from the sky, each one unique and delicate, settling on the ground and transforming it into a soft, white wonderland. It felt comforting, like nature’s own little gift. But time doesn’t follow the same rules in the entity’s realm. Seasons don’t change, and winter becomes a distant memory, a concept rather than a feeling. You haven’t felt real snow in what feels like forever.

So, when you first saw it again you felt a flicker of joy. You landed on the ground, expecting that chill on your skin, the cold air filling your lungs. But instead, you were met with something... wrong. The snow didn’t fall naturally, but seemed to be pasted onto the world, cold only in appearance. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t alive. The snowflakes didn’t twirl through the air, and the ground beneath your feet felt too solid, too still. No crisp bite in the air, no damp chill seeping through your clothes. Just a hollow echo of the winter you once loved. The excitement quickly faded, replaced by a bitter disappointment. It wasn't real. It never was.

You didn’t expect much when you were called for a trial. They were all the same at this point—different maps, same routine. But as soon as you arrived, something felt… off. The air was sharp and biting, your breath fogged in front of you, and a chill ran down your spine as you took in your surroundings. You were standing outside a massive manor, its roof blanketed with thick snow and sharp icicles hanging from the edges like teeth. Snow drifted lazily from the sky, it was quiet and the crunch of snow under your boots felt too loud. You hugged yourself against the cold, shivering as it nipped at your skin.

This was new.

Your eyes scanned the manor, its grandness both stunning and foreboding. You didn’t recognize it from any previous trials, and that only made your chest tighten. This map was new. And if it was new, there was only one explanation.

A new killer.

You took a hesitant step forward, your nerves on edge as you climbed the steps to the manor’s entrance. The door creaked open with little effort and your heart sank as you took in the strange décor. The walls were lined with mirrors—some shattered, their jagged shards glinting menacingly, others cracked just enough to distort your reflection. A few were pristine, their surfaces smooth and unbroken, but something about them felt wrong. The reflections didn’t look quite right.

Your breath came out in quick puffs, the cold seeming to seep through the walls themselves. You forced yourself to keep moving, knowing you had to find a generator. The sooner you started, the sooner this trial could be over.

Your search led you to a massive ballroom, and your breath caught in your throat. It was unlike anything you’d seen before. The floor was a sheet of ice, polished to a mirror-like shine, and the room seemed to stretch endlessly. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, but instead of glass, it was crafted entirely from icicles, their razor-sharp points glistening as they swayed ever so slightly. The windows—or where the windows should have been—were replaced with cracked mirrors.

You stepped carefully onto the icy floor, your boots slipping slightly as you made your way further in. The cold seemed to deepen here, clawing at your skin and making you shudder uncontrollably. You glanced around, half-expecting to see a generator, but there was none in sight.

You huffed in frustration as you slid across the icy floor, your footing unstable. The sharp cold gnawed at your fingers and toes, even through your clothes. Just as you steadied yourself, a scream tore through the air, slicing through the quiet like a blade. It was distant but blood-curdling, the cry of a survivor encountering the killer.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you moved forward, walking through a pair of wide, icy double doors that led to a balcony. The scene that greeted you stopped you in your tracks.

Below you stretched a massive, frozen garden. Rows of tall hedges loomed like the skeletal remains of a long-dead maze, their branches brittle and crusted with frost. The labyrinth twisted and turned, the pathways obscured by fog that clung to the ground like ghostly tendrils. Scattered throughout the garden were ice statues—figures frozen mid-motion—but the distance made it hard to tell if they were just art.

Movement in the maze caught your eye. You squinted and leaned over the balcony’s edge. It was Nancy. She was running through the labyrinth, her hands flailing as she waved desperately in your direction. Panic was written all over her face, her wide eyes darting between you and something behind you.

It took a moment for you to process what she was trying to convey. That’s when it hit you—a cold breeze that wrapped around your body like icy fingers. Your breath caught as you shivered violently, your teeth chattering. Slowly, as if against your own will, you turned around.

And there he was.

A tall man loomed behind you, unnervingly still, his presence so cold. He was clad in a tailored suit, though it was torn and frayed in places. An icy sheen coated the fabric, frost clinging to him as if he were part of winter. His hair was white, and the tips seemed frozen, as though frost had begun to consume him from the edges.

But it was his face that sent chills down your spine.

The left side of his face was hauntingly beautiful—sharp, elegant features carved from pale skin, veins of icy blue tracing faintly on his neck. His lips, pale and slightly blue, parted slightly as a frosty mist escaped with every breath, and his eye, an unnatural, glowing blue, fixed on you with an intensity that rooted you in place.

The right side of his face, however, was hidden beneath a mask of cracked mirrors, the shards reflecting distorted images of yourself. The fragments shifted slightly, catching the dim light as if they were alive, twisting your reflection into a grotesque parody.

In his right hand, he held a massive shard of glass, its edges jagged and sharp, covered in frost that glittered like deadly diamonds. Ice crawled along the surface, spiraling down to the hilt where his gloved hand gripped it tightly. His other hand, bare and pale as death itself, hung loosely at his side, frost coating his fingertips.

He tilted his head slowly, the motion unnatural. You couldn’t tell if the sound you heard was the creak of his neck or the faint crackle of ice forming in the air around him.

Your breath hitched as you took a shaky step back, the icy floor beneath you making it nearly impossible to find stable footing. The cold wasn’t just external anymore; it was inside you, crawling through your veins almost like a parasite.

The killer took a step forward, the shard of glass dragging across the ground, leaving a thin trail of frost in its wake. The sound it made was sharp and grating, like nails on a chalkboard.

The only thought screaming in your mind was run.

And you didn’t hesitate. Your survival instincts kicked in, and you pushed off the icy floor, sliding awkwardly toward the edge of the balcony. Without a second thought, you vaulted over, your heart leaping into your throat as you braced for the impact below. The landing was rough but the adrenaline forcing you to ignore the ache.

As you straightened up, you glanced back over your shoulder, just for a split second, and froze.

He was leaning over the balcony, his hand resting on the icy railing, his head tilted again. He wasn’t rushing after you. He wasn’t angry or even fazed. Instead, he watched you with a cold calmness, like a predator confident in its prey’s inevitable capture.

That made it worse.

You didn’t wait to see what he’d do next. Turning on your heel, you took off running into the labyrinth, the snow crunching loudly beneath your boots. Every step a reminder of how exposed you were.

You didn’t know where you were going—just away. Away from him. Away from the cold and the glass shard that promised pain and death. Your breath came in quick, visible puffs as you ran, your lungs burning from the freezing air.

The labyrinth was a maze in every sense of the word, the fog making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. You turned left, then right, your boots sliding on patches of ice hidden beneath the snow. Your mind raced as you tried to recall the layout you’d glimpsed from the balcony, but it was no use. Every path looked the same—dead and endless.

Another scream rang out, sharper and closer this time. Your heart sank. You couldn’t tell who it was, so you forced yourself to keep going, your legs burning with the effort of running on the uneven, frozen ground.

Your legs burned, your lungs screamed for air, and the cold gnawed relentlessly at your skin. You finally skidded to a halt, leaning against the icy hedge for support. The snow beneath you crunched as you shifted, each breath coming out as shaky puffs of mist. You sniffled, shivering as you tried to gather your thoughts.

That’s when you saw it.

To your right, standing innocently against the frozen hedge, was a tall mirror. It was pristine, untouched by the cracks, the frame was silver, almost shimmering, and frost curled delicately along its edges like it had been painted there. The glass itself was so smooth it reflected everything perfectly, capturing your wide-eyed, disheveled image with startling clarity.

You tilted your head, your breath hitching as you stared. It had been so long since you’d seen your reflection—so long since you’d stopped to even think about what you looked like. The sight was strange, foreign even. You didn’t recognize the exhausted, frost-bitten figure staring back at you, but something about the mirror pulled you in.

Your feet moved before your mind could stop them, carrying you closer. You stood before the mirror, your breath fogging the glass slightly as you studied yourself. Hesitantly, your hand lifted, trembling as your fingertips hovered just above the icy surface. You shouldn’t touch it. You knew you shouldn’t. But something about it was calling to you, drawing you in like the lure of a siren.

The instant your fingers brushed the glass, it happened.

A sudden force yanked you forward, your breath stolen as your vision blurred. You didn’t even have time to cry out as the cold wrapped around you, dragging you into the mirror. The world flipped and spun, shards of glass and light flashing all around you. Your reflection fractured into countless pieces, each one distorting your image—your face twisted, stretched, broken in ways that made your stomach lurch.

When you finally came to, the spinning stopped. You opened your eyes, but the sight that greeted you was nothing like the labyrinth you’d been running through.

You were inside the mirror.

The world around you was endless and disorienting. Shards of glass floated in the air, twisting and turning, each one reflecting a fractured image of you. Some pieces were small, no larger than a coin, while others were enormous, towering over you like walls. Each shard seemed to hum faintly, a sound that vibrated through your skull and made your head throb. You reached out to steady yourself, but there was nothing solid to hold on to—just the endless, shifting glass.

You felt dizzy, your legs weak as you struggled to comprehend where you were. The reflections moved strangely, showing parts of yourself that weren’t in the same position as the rest of you. It was like watching a puzzle where the pieces didn’t quite fit.

Then, a voice.

It cut through the humming like a blade, low and smooth, with an icy edge that sent a chill straight to your core.

“Oh, you poor thing,” the voice purred, dripping with mockery. “So eager to touch what you shouldn’t. Did you really think the mirror was just for show?”

You whipped your head around, searching for the source, but there was no one there—just more glass reflecting your panicked face.

The voice chuckled, soft and cold. “Do you like it in here? It’s my little masterpiece. Every broken shard tells a story, you see. And now, you’ve become part of it.”

You spun in place, your breaths coming faster. “Where are you?!”

The laughter grew louder, echoing all around you, each shard vibrating with the sound, but he did not answer you.

Instead the glass around you began to shift, the shards rearranging themselves into new patterns. They moved closer, boxing you in, the reflections multiplying until it felt like you were being watched by a thousand versions of yourself—and something else.

In one of the largest shards, his reflection appeared. The killer.

He stood just on the other side of the glass, staring at you with a calm expression. Slowly, he raised his gloved hand and pressed it to the glass, the icy surface fogging slightly under his touch.

Your breath hitched as you stumbled back, you moved until your back hit something solid—the mirror you’d touched before.

Before you could process what was happening, the glass behind you pulled you in again. The world spun, shards flying past your vision as you felt that same sickening tug. A freezing chill washed over you, and then suddenly—

You were out.

Your feet hit solid ground, and you collapsed forward onto your hands and knees, gasping for air. The disorientation left you dizzy, your head pounding as you tried to steady yourself. The cold still clung to you, biting at your skin like a lingering phantom of the mirror world.

You forced yourself to your feet, legs shaky and unsteady, your breath coming out in frantic clouds. As you looked around, you froze.

This wasn’t where you’d been before.

Instead, you were in a dark, underground section of the estate. The air here was thicker, heavier. The walls around you were frozen, their icy surfaces glinting faintly.

Above you, sharp icicles hung dangerously from the ceiling. They were long and jagged, some as thick as your arm, and looked as though they could fall at the slightest provocation.

You took a cautious step forward, the crunch of snow under your boot echoing unnaturally loud. Your eyes darted upward, watching the icicles sway ever so slightly. You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening. One wrong move, one too-loud sound, and those deadly spikes could come crashing down.

“Stay calm,” you thought to yourself.

You continued forward, your steps careful and measured. The way revealed more of the icy corridor ahead, branching off into several paths.

Then you heard it.

A faint, distant crack.

Footsteps.

Your blood ran cold. He was here.

You turned, your eyes darting around for any sign of an escape, but you were offered nothing more but dead ends.

Then his voice cut through the air, smooth and taunting.

“You can’t run forever.”

You turned sharply, picking a path at random and running, your boots sliding on the slick ground.

Behind you, the footsteps quickened, you didn’t dare look back, the sense of him closing in enough to keep you moving forward.

You rounded a corner and skidded to a halt.

A dead end.

And the only way out was the way you’d come. You spun around, your back pressed against the frozen wall, your breath ragged as you watched the corridor you’d just come from.

The footsteps stopped.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, slowly, he stepped into view, his towering frame filling the narrow passage as he took a step forward.

You pressed harder against the wall, your fingers numb from the cold, your mind racing for a way out. But there was none.

He stopped just a few feet from you, his breath visible in the icy air.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, his gloved fingers brushing along the edge of the mirror shard in his hand and slowly, his gaze began to travel downward, starting at your face, moving over the trembling rise and fall of your chest, your arms clinging tightly to yourself, and finally down to your legs and boots, still trembling slightly from your desperate run.

A low hum escaped his lips, soft and almost contemplative, a sound that sent chills crawling up your spine, as if he were truly appreciating what he saw.

“You’re exquisite,” he murmured, his voice smooth. He took another step forward, closing the already-small distance between you. You pressed harder against the frozen wall, your entire body stiffening as he leaned closer.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

His pale hand rose slowly, as if to savor the moment. You flinched as his fingers brushed against your cheek, and the touch was so cold it burned. You froze entirely, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. The air left your lungs in short, visible puffs as your body tried in vain to fight the cold spreading from where his hand lingered.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly, his tone almost... tender. He tilted his head again, his lips curving into a faint, chilling smile. “No need to be afraid, my dear. I wouldn’t dare ruin something so... beautiful.”

You stared up at him, wide-eyed and trembling, your body refusing to obey your frantic thoughts screaming at you to move, to run, to do something. But the cold was paralyzing.

His hand trailed along your cheek, the frozen burn spreading as he brushed his thumb over your jawline, tracing the edge of your face with unsettling care. “Your face... so delicate. So perfect.”

His cold breath brushed against your face, his voice no louder than a whisper. “Your eyes...” His thumb stopped, resting just beneath one of them, his frosted breath clouding in the air between you. “So full of life. So bright, even now. You’re unlike any I’ve seen before.”

You couldn’t respond. The cold had stolen your voice, your teeth chattering too hard for you to form words. He didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he appeared amused by your silence.

“You’re trembling so much,” he murmured, his hand shifting to brush a strand of hair from your face, the motion almost... gentle. “Is it the cold? Or... me?”

He leaned in even closer, his lips almost brushing your ear as he whispered, “Perhaps both.”

You wanted to scream, to shove him away, to do anything, but all you could do was stand there, trapped in his icy grip. You felt like you were being frozen alive.

His hand moved to your neck, his fingers grazing your skin as he chuckled, his breath like a biting winter wind. “I could keep you here forever,” he mused, his tone almost dreamy, as if the idea truly pleased him. “Frozen, perfect, untouchable. Just... mine.”

His words sent a wave of panic crashing over you, momentarily snapping you out of the icy haze clouding your mind. Your body twitched, an instinctive attempt to break free, but his grip tightened slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you just how powerless you were in this moment.

“You’re frightened,” he said, his tone shifting to one of mock sympathy. “Good. Fear suits you.”

And just as the tears began to sting your eyes from the cold and helplessness, his fingers left your skin, and he pulled back slightly. He studied you for a moment longer, as if committing every detail of your face to memory.

Then, in a soft, almost wistful tone, he murmured, “Run.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your mind barely processing the command before his smirk widened and he stepped back, his hand once again gripping the icy shard at his side.

“Go,” he said, his voice sharper now, like the crack of frozen glass. “Let’s see how far you can get.”

The moment your body allowed it, you bolted, stumbling past him and into the freezing corridors, his cold laughter echoing behind you like the toll of a bell.

Your legs carried you forward, slipping and stumbling over the icy ground. The sound of his laughter followed you, echoing through the frozen halls. It was as though it bounced off the very walls, coming at you from all directions, mocking your panic and desperation.

The floor beneath you shifted unexpectedly, the ice slick and uneven. Your foot slipped, and you went sprawling to the ground with a sharp gasp. The impact jarred your body, pain shooting up your arm as you braced your fall. For a moment, the world spun, the sound of your ragged breathing filling your ears.

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up already,” his voice called out, closer than it should have been.

Your head snapped up, and you realized the light above you had shifted. You turned your gaze slowly upward, and there he was, standing just above you.

“You’re quite resilient,” he mused, his icy voice calm, almost teasing. “But you’re slowing down. The cold is catching up to you.”

Panic surged through you, overriding the pain in your arm as you scrambled to your feet. You bolted again, ignoring the way your legs screamed in protest.

Then you spotted it.

A faint glow ahead—warm and flickering, like firelight. Fire.. fire meant heat, warmth and safety.

The glow grew brighter as you neared it, and you realized it was coming from an arched doorway. Beyond it, you could see the orange flicker of flames. You practically threw yourself through the opening, your body collapsing in front of the roaring fireplace in the center of the room.

The warmth hit you like a wave, washing over your frozen skin and sending sharp, painful tingles through your fingers and toes as the feeling began to return. You gasped for air, curling into yourself as the heat began to thaw the icy grip that had taken hold of your body.

But the relief was short-lived.

You turned your head slightly, and your stomach dropped. The room wasn’t empty.

Surrounding you were tall mirrors, each one angled slightly toward the fireplace. They reflected the room in perfect, chilling detail. And in every single one, he was there, standing behind you.

Your breath caught in your throat as you whipped around, but the room was empty.

The mirrors, however, told a different story. He stood just behind your reflection, his piercing blue eye meeting yours through the glass.

“Did you think the fire would save you?” his voice echoed around the room, no longer calm but mocking.

The flames in the fireplace flickered violently, the warmth suddenly waning as frost began to creep across the floor toward you. The temperature plummeted, the ice spreading like veins across the room and snuffing out the fire entirely.

You stumbled backward, heart racing as you turned to face one of the mirrors. He was no longer just standing there—he was moving. Slowly, deliberately, his reflection stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and yours.

Before you could react, a hand shot out of the glass, his icy fingers gripping your wrist with inhuman strength. You screamed as the cold burned your skin, his grip dragging you closer to the mirror.

“Don’t fight it,” he said softly, his voice echoing in your ears as the shards within the mirrors began to hum again. “You belong with me now.”

You struggled against him, your free hand clawing at the icy surface of the mirror as it began to pull you in. The frost crawled up your arm, spreading rapidly as the world around you began to distort, shards of glass spinning wildly in your peripheral vision.

With one final yank, he pulled you through the mirror.

The last thing you saw before everything went black was your own reflection, frozen in terror, staring back at you as the shards swallowed you whole.

You jolted awake with a gasp, your body trembling violently. The cold was overwhelming, gripping you like an unrelenting vice, and as you looked around, your heart sank. You were back in the mirror realm.

The shards around you showed you in unnatural ways. Every angle of yourself felt alien, wrong, like the mirror was trying to break you down piece by piece.

“No,” you whispered, voice weak and trembling, your breath fogging up the air in front of you. Your legs were shaky, but you forced yourself to stand.

There was no time to waste. You spotted another mirror—a whole one this time—standing pristine just a few feet away. Summoning every ounce of courage, you stepped toward the mirror. This time, you didn’t pause to study your reflection. You didn’t let yourself think. You pressed your palm flat against the cold, smooth surface.

The pull came instantly, like an icy wind yanking you forward. Your body jerked as you were sucked into the mirror’s depths once more. The same nauseating sensation returned and you clenched your teeth to keep from screaming.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

You stumbled forward, your feet catching against a thick rug as you fell to your knees. You blinked, the room slowly coming into focus.

It was another part of the manor, entirely different from where you’d been before. The walls were still coated in frost, but it was quieter. You looked up to see a grand fireplace crackling with warm, golden flames. A luxurious couch sat nearby, its velvet cushions looking inviting, though a thin layer of frost clung to the edges.

You didn’t hesitate. The fire called to you like salvation itself.

You dragged yourself to your feet, stumbling toward the fireplace. The warmth hit you in waves, and you let out a shuddering breath as you collapsed onto the rug in front of it, stretching your trembling hands toward the flames.

The heat seeped into your frozen skin, painful at first as the biting cold fought to stay. You held your hands closer, rubbing them together desperately as you tried to thaw yourself.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to relax. Your body still shook from the adrenaline and cold, but the warmth was soothing, grounding you.

You took a glance around the room, taking in your surroundings. It was richly decorated, though the frost and time had dulled its once-luxurious beauty. A massive portrait hung above the fireplace, but the frost obscured the faces in the painting, making it impossible to make out who—or what—it depicted.

The couch loomed nearby, its plush cushions tempting, but you didn’t dare sit. You couldn’t afford to let your guard down for long, not when he could appear at any moment. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, despite the fire’s warmth.

You stared back into the flames, your mind racing. The mirrors... they were clearly part of his power, his trap, but they also seemed to be a way to move through the manor.

But even as you thought that, the sound of footsteps echoed faintly down the hall.

Your heart leapt into your throat, the warmth of the fire suddenly feeling far too distant. You froze, every instinct screaming at you to move, to hide, but your body refused to obey.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel the chill creeping back into the room, the warmth of the fire retreating as if it couldn’t stand him.

“Found you,” his voice purred, low and laced with amusement.

Your body tensed as you slowly turned your head toward him, your breath hitching in your throat. He was closer than you expected—far closer. You hadn’t even heard him cross the room, but there he was, towering over you.

You gasped, your back pressing harder against the rug as though you could somehow melt into the floor to escape him.

He reached out, trailing dangerously close to your face, but he stopped just short of touching you. His icy breath curled in the air as he tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over you from head to toe.

“I should end this,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, but there was an edge to it—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. “You’re the last one left. There’s no one else. No one coming to save you.”

Your stomach dropped at his words. The others were gone. Nancy, the others—they’d all fallen to him. You were alone.

He crouched suddenly, leaning over you with a grace that felt almost unnatural. His free hand came to rest on the floor beside you, pinning you in place with his sheer presence. You tried to scoot back, but the icy chill radiating from him seemed to freeze you in place.

“But…” he continued, his voice softer now, contemplative, “I can’t bear to ruin something so… perfect.”

His words caught you off guard, and your eyes widened as he his hand brushed your jaw, his cold fingers gripping gently but firmly. You sucked in a sharp breath, expecting the freezing touch to sting, to burn like the cold always had before.

But it didn’t.

Instead, his touch was… comforting. The cold seeped into your skin, chasing away the ache from the fire’s heat. It was strangely soothing, like the cool side of a pillow on a restless night, or the air of an early winter morning.

Your body reacted involuntarily, your tense muscles relaxing slightly despite the fear coursing through you.

It all left you disoriented.

“You see,” he murmured, his fingers tightening slightly against your jaw, tilting your face up so your eyes met his. “There’s something about you, survivor. Something… different.”

His gaze roamed your features with an unsettling intensity, his icy breath brushing against your face. You tried to look away, but his grip kept you firmly in place.

“You’ve caught my attention,” he continued, his voice dipping lower, almost intimate. “And that doesn’t happen often.”

You didn’t even respond—couldn’t even respond.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice soft but commanding, “are you afraid of me?”

Your heart thundered in your chest, but the answer wasn’t as simple as it should’ve been. Fear clung to you, yes—but so did something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.

When you didn’t answer, his lips curled into a faint, chilling smile. “No matter,” he murmured. “I’ll find out soon enough.”

His hand trailed down to your throat. The cold seeped deeper now, sending a shiver down your spine. His grip was firm but not constricting.

“You’re lucky,” he said softly, pulling back slightly to meet your gaze again. “I’ve decided to spare you. For now.”

“But don’t think for a moment that you’re free,” he added, his voice colder now, sharper.

Before you could even react, his cold, strong hands gripped your waist. A startled gasp escaped your lips as he hoisted you effortlessly into the air, slinging you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

“W-What?” you stammered, your breath hitching as you felt the solid, cold muscle beneath his tattered suit.

He didn’t talk, nor did he falter as he began walking, his movements steady. You squirmed slightly, your hands pressed against his broad shoulder in an attempt to push yourself free, but his grip on you was firm, unyielding.

It was then that you noticed something strange—the ground beneath his feet was transforming. With every step he took, the floor froze over, leaving a trail of ice in his wake.

Behind him, the mirror shard he dragged in his hand left another trail, the jagged glass carving faint grooves into the icy floor. It gleamed faintly, catching the dim light of the room, but it was the strange magic in it that drew your attention. The frost along the edges seemed alive, swirling and shimmering in ways that didn’t seem natural.

And the mirrors along the walls reflected your current state back at you. It was almost unrecognizable.

Your hair was dusted with frost, strands glittering like they were laced with snowflakes. Your lashes and brows were coated in icy crystals, and your lips… they looked pale, almost blue, like the color had been drained by the biting cold. Even your skin had taken on a frosty tint, its natural warmth replaced by something delicate and ethereal.

You blinked at the reflection, your breath catching. For a moment, you almost didn’t look like yourself. You looked… otherworldly, like you belonged here, in this frozen hellscape he commanded. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, and not just from the cold.

“I see you’ve noticed,” his voice rumbled, deep and laced with amusement. You jolted slightly at the sound of it, and your gaze darted to the back of his head.

“What—what’s happening to me?” you demanded, though your voice came out shaky, far weaker than you intended.

“It suits you,” he said simply, his tone calm, almost admiring. “The frost, the cold. It brings out something… exquisite.”

His words sent a strange mix of emotions coursing through you. You weren’t sure whether to feel flattered or horrified.

“Let me go,” you hissed, though there was little force behind your words.

“No,” he replied, almost lazily, as though the very idea amused him. “Not yet.”

His footsteps echoed as he carried you deeper into the manor. You couldn’t tell where he was taking you, but the icy walls became thicker the further you went.

The air felt colder than ever when he suddenly stopped, and without warning, he threw you down, the impact rattling through your body as you hit the frozen ground. A hiss escaped your lips at the cold biting into your palms, but the sting didn’t linger for long—because that’s when you saw it.

The hatch.

It was right in front of you, its familiar wooden frame stark against the glistening frost around it. Your heart leapt in disbelief. He was letting you go.

You looked up at him, confusion and suspicion warring within you. Was this some sort of trap? But when your eyes met his, he was already staring at you, his calm, piercing gaze sending shivers down your spine.

He crouched down, his movement eerily graceful, and brought his hand to your cheek once more. The coldness of his touch was no longer unbearable—almost like your skin had adjusted to the frost.

“You survived, little one,” he whispered, his voice soft and low, laced with something unidentifiable.

His breath curled in a frosty mist around your face as he leaned closer, his lips just a whisper away from your ear.

“I’ll see you real soon.”

Before you could say anything—before you could even think of a response—he rose to his full height, turned, and walked away.

You didn’t wait to see if he would change his mind. Scrambling forward, you gripped the edge of the hatch and pulled yourself in.

The cold vanished immediately as you fell, the icy chill replaced by a strange weightlessness. For a moment, you floated in nothingness, then, with a thud, you landed on the soft, familiar dirt of the survivor’s camp.

Warmth washed over you instantly, and you sucked in a deep breath, relief flooding through you. You looked around, the familiar sights of the campfire, scattered supplies, and makeshift shelters grounding you. It was over. The trial was over.

But as you sat there, staring into the fire’s comforting glow, the memory of his voice lingered in your mind. His words. His touch. His frost.

He had let you go.

--

Your next few trials were nothing short of a nightmare—though, what else was new? First, it was The Trapper, he had almost caught you at the exit gate, but a perfectly timed flashlight save from one of the other survivors gave you just enough time to slip away.

Then, there was Ghostface. His knife had grazed your back once, almost claiming you as you worked on a generator, but somehow, you managed to outmaneuver him, staying just steps ahead of his blade. The trial ended with you sprinting through the exit gate, heart pounding and lungs burning.

But just when you thought you could catch your breath, the Entity had other plans.

The next time the fog swallowed you up and spat you into a new trial, the familiar chill hit you like a slap to the face.

Your boots crunched against the snow as you took in your surroundings, your breath already visible in the icy air. Dead, frostbitten hedges towered around you, stretching into a labyrinth.

Your stomach dropped.

His map. Again.

You took a cautious step forward, trying to steady your breathing as the icy wind bit into your skin.

It didn’t take long before the sound of a generator humming faintly reached your ears. You turned a corner in the maze, spotting one sitting in the center of a small clearing. A teammate—Claudette—was already crouched by it, working diligently.

Relief washed over you as you made your way to her. If you could stick together, you’d have a better chance of survival. But as you reached her side and knelt to help, you couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched.

Your hands trembled slightly as you worked, the cold making it hard to grip the wired properly. Then, without warning, Claudette stiffened beside you, her eyes widening in panic.

“Run,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the howling wind.

You didn’t need to ask why. The frost on the ground spreading, creeping toward you like a living thing, said as much.

You turned your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him.

The Frost Warden. At least that is what you and the other has started calling him.

You bolted at the sight of him, the snow crunching loudly beneath your feet as you tore through the maze. The icy wind whipped at your face, stinging your skin, but you didn’t dare look back.

The sound of Claudette’s scream echoed faintly behind you, and guilt clawed at your chest, but you couldn’t stop now.

You turned another corner, your lungs burning from the cold air, and skidded to a stop, nearly stumbling when you saw it—a generator, partially hidden by the frost-covered hedges. Relief mixed with panic surged through you. You had no idea where the others were, but you couldn’t let this chance go to waste.

You ran to it, skidding slightly on the icy ground, and immediately knelt by its side. Your fingers, stiff and numb from the cold, fumbled as you began working. The gears groaned faintly, resisting your touch, but you forced yourself to focus, biting your lip to keep your hands steady.

The sound of the Frost Warden’s footsteps had faded behind you, but you knew better than to assume he’d given up the chase. He didn’t need to run to catch you. This map was his domain, and you were just another mouse trapped in his frozen maze.

The generator sputtered as you fixed another wire, the hum growing louder with each successful connection. Your breath clouded the air in front of you as you worked, the sound of the engine beginning to mask the distant howling wind.

But then, a faint shimmer in the corner of your vision made you freeze.

You glanced up, heart sinking, and spotted a mirror embedded into the wall of the hedges just a few feet away. Its surface rippled faintly, like water disturbed by a pebble, and your reflection stared back at you—pale, frostbitten, and wide-eyed with fear.

For a second, nothing happened. The mirror was still, almost taunting you. But then, the rippling grew stronger, and your blood turned to ice.

You didn’t wait to see what would come through. You turned back to the generator, frantically working to finish it, but your trembling hands slowed you down. The gears groaned again, protesting against your haste.

Behind you, the mirror shimmered one last time, and then the unmistakable sound of footsteps crunching through the snow filled the air.

Slow, deliberate, and far too close.

“Fixing something, are we?” The Frost Warden’s icy voice was low and calm, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

You whipped your head around, your heart leaping into your throat. He stood just a few feet away, his tall figure looming over you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. His piercing blue eye studied you, sharp and calculating.

“I have to admit,” he said, taking a slow step closer, “I enjoy watching you struggle. It’s... captivating.”

You scrambled to your feet, hands trembling as you backed away from the generator. He tilted his head slightly, his calm expression never faltering, and took another step forward. The frost beneath his feet spread outward with each step, creeping across the ground and curling around the base of the generator.

You wanted to run, to put as much distance between you and him as possible, but your legs felt like lead. The cold seemed to seep into your bones, rooting you in place as his icy gaze bore into you.

“Go on,” he said softly, gesturing with the shard. “Run. Fight. Survive. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?”

His words felt like a taunt, and something inside you snapped. You turned on your heel and bolted, the sound of his low, icy chuckle following you as you disappeared into the labyrinth once more.

Your boots slipped slightly on the frost-slick ground as you sprinted deeper into the labyrinth. Every turn you made felt like the wrong one, the frozen hedges looming high around you, cutting off your sense of direction.

You refused to look back. You couldn’t.

Panic clawed at your chest as you skidded around another corner, narrowly avoiding an ice-coated statue that seemed to glare down at you like a silent sentinel. Your breath was visible in the air, coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

A faint light caught your eye—another generator. This one stood in the center of an open clearing, its dull hum barely audible over the wind. You didn’t hesitate. Sliding to a stop, you crouched beside it, your trembling hands fumbling as you grabbed your tools.

Your fingers were numb, making it even harder to work, but you forced yourself to focus. The wires were stiff and brittle, like they might snap under too much pressure, but you managed to connect them, one by one.

The generator sputtered to life, its engine coughing loudly as it struggled against the cold. You winced at the noise, glancing over your shoulder, half-expecting to see him standing there, watching. But there was no one. So you took that chance.

Standing up up you sprinted back through the labyrinth, turning sharply around a frozen hedge, when a faint hum caught your ears. Another generator. Your heart leapt with a sliver of hope, and as you rounded the corner, you saw him—Bill.

He was hunched over the last few wires of the generator, his rough hands expertly finishing the job. Sparks flew, and the machine roared to life just as you skidded to a stop nearby.

"Bill!" you gasped, barely able to get the word out as you stumbled toward him, your breath clouding in the icy air.

He looked up sharply, his cigarette dangling from his lips, and his eyes widened when he saw you. "Kid, what the hell are you doin'?" he barked, but before you could answer, the faint crunch of footsteps made both of you freeze.

You didn’t need to say a word. Bill’s face hardened instantly, his sharp instincts kicking in. “Go. Now,” he growled, stepping between you and the sound of approaching frost.

“Bill—”

“Don’t argue with me! Get your ass outta here!” he snapped, pulling his flashlight from his belt.

After a moment of hesitation you turned and bolted, your feet slipping slightly on the frozen ground as you took off deeper into the maze. Behind you, you heard Bill shout, “Come on, you bastard! You want someone? Come get me!”

You risked a glance back just in time to see the Frost Warden emerge from the mist, his tall figure cutting an imposing silhouette. His icy blue eye locked onto Bill.

“Come on dammit!!” Bill yelled, his voice fierce.

You didn’t look back after that. You ran, your legs burning as you pushed forward, weaving through the labyrinth. The sound of their confrontation grew fainter with each step, replaced by the distant hum of generators and the faint howl of the wind.

It wasn’t until you burst through a gap in the hedges and saw the glowing lights of the exit gate in the distance that you realized you were finally in the clear. Your chest heaved, your lungs burning from the effort, but you forced yourself to keep going.

As you reached the gate, you found one of your teammates already there, working frantically to pull the lever. They glanced at you, relief washing over their face as the gate screeched open with a metallic groan.

With one last glance at the icy maze, you stepped through the gate, the warmth of safety washing over you.

--

You hated the smug, talkative killers. The ones who couldn’t just do their job silently but instead had to taunt, flirt, or throw out some sarcastic quip every chance they got. It wasn’t enough for them to hook you or slash at you—they had to make it personal, priding themselves on the mental games they played.

Killers like that were rare, but when you encountered them, you dreaded every moment of the trial. They made it unbearable, turning what was already a desperate fight for survival into a drawn-out performance where they were the star of the show.

The worst part? They always had that air of superiority, acting as if they were untouchable. They thrived on your frustration, your fear, and sometimes even your silence.

“Aw, don’t run now. We were just getting to know each other!”

You could hear their voice ringing in your ears even now, a mocking lilt that made your skin crawl. Some of them flirted, their words dripping with twisted charm as they chased you through the trial, their weapons raised.

“You look so cute when you’re terrified.”

Others just talked endlessly, like they needed you to know how clever or sadistic they were. They’d narrate every move, every mistake you made, as if you weren’t already painfully aware of how close you were to getting caught.

“Really? That’s the best you can do? You should’ve vaulted back there—might’ve lasted a bit longer.”

And then there were the ones who wouldn’t shut up when they hooked you, leaning down like they had all the time in the world, their breath hot against your skin.

“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. It’s just business… though you do make it so much fun.”

You hated them. All of them.

It wasn’t just the humiliation—it was how they got under your skin, how their words stayed with you even after the trial was over. You could still feel the phantom weight of their hands brushing against your skin as they carried you, hear the mocking laughter as they walked away from the hook, leaving you there to struggle.

And yet, even if he wasn’t as insufferable as the others, he still had that pridefulness about him—this confidence that made him believe he was better than you, better than all of you. He didn’t need to taunt or jeer with endless, childish words like some of the others, but when he spoke, his voice carried weight. His words lingered, cutting deep, mocking you with a sly edge, and worse, when he flirted… it wasn’t just for show.

There was no humor in his tone, no casual arrogance like the smug Ghostface or the loud-mouthed Trickster. When he spoke to you, it felt like there was intent behind every word. Like he meant it.

That’s why, when you dropped into the Hawkins Lab, you let out a quiet breath of relief, assuming the Demogorgon was the killer this time. The mechanical hum of the underground facility echoed faintly, and you thought maybe you’d gotten lucky for once.

But then you felt it—the subtle, growing thump of your heartbeat.

You froze.

The air changed. A chill crept over your skin, one that was unmistakable.

The frost.

Your breath hitched as your eyes darted around the dimly lit corridors, and when you saw the faint mist curling along the ground, your stomach dropped.

It was him.

He was the killer this round.

Your pulse quickened, the memory of your last encounter with him flooding your mind. You didn’t know if you were ready to face him again. But ready or not, he was here. Somewhere.

And he was already hunting.

You crept through the winding halls of the lab, the flickering fluorescent lights casting eerie shadows on the steel walls. The chill in the air followed you, prickling at your skin as if a warning.

Finally, in a quieter part of the lab, tucked into a dead-end room, you found a generator. Relief washed over you as you crouched beside it, letting your fingers hover over the familiar knobs and wires. You could do this.

Your hands worked quickly, tightening bolts and rewiring panels, the sound of the generator humming softly beneath your touch. But then, from somewhere deep in the lab, a scream pierced the silence.

It was sharp, panicked, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

One of the others had found him—or, more accurately, he had found them.

Your instinct screamed at you to stop what you were doing, to run and hide before he got too close. But you couldn’t afford to waste time. You couldn’t leave the generator unfinished, and there was no guarantee you’d find another quiet spot like this again.

So you stayed.

Your fingers trembled as you twisted the last wire into place, forcing yourself to focus on the task. Every tick of the generator felt like an eternity, each movement of your hand making your heart pound harder.

And then you felt it—the subtle change in the air.

The frost crept in, curling along the edges of the room like icy tendrils reaching for you.

Your breath fogged as the chill kissed your skin, and your stomach sank just as the generator roared to life, cutting through the silence of the lab.

And then you saw it.

To your left, just beyond the doorway, the faint red glow.

Your heart sank.

The telltale light killers carried with them—always a warning, always a death sentence if you weren’t fast enough. And just past the glow, you saw him.

He stood there, completely still for a moment, then his head tilted slightly, almost curiously, before he took a single step forward. The frost beneath his feet deepened, spreading faster across the floor, as if it were alive and hungry to reach you.

"Impressive," he murmured, his voice smooth and cold, yet carrying a dangerous edge. "You finished the generator all alone? Clever little thing, aren’t you?"

Your legs finally obeyed you, and you stumbled backward, your shoulder hitting the wall as you tried to put distance between yourself and him. But there was nowhere to go—no other exits, no windows to climb through.

He stepped fully into the room now, the red glow of his presence bathing the small space as he closed the distance with unnerving calmness.

"Did you miss me?" he asked, his lips curling into the faintest smirk as his free hand reached out, his frosted fingers brushing lightly against the wall beside your head.

"I’ve been looking forward to this," he whispered. "Don’t disappoint me now."

Well.. he said it.

With your back against the wall and his towering figure leaning in too close, you knew there was only one way out of this.

Before he could react, you drove your knee up with all your strength, slamming it into his stomach.

He staggered back, a sharp groan tearing from his throat as his hand instinctively moved to his abdomen.

"Really?" he hissed, his voice low and laced with irritation.

But you didn’t stick around to hear what else he had to say. The moment you saw him falter, you bolted.

You sprinted past him, your boots skidding slightly on the frosted floor as you rounded the doorway and darted back into the dimly lit hallways of Hawkins Lab.

You could hear him behind you now—not running, but walking. Slow, deliberate, as if he wasn’t worried about catching up.

And that made it worse.

You risked a glance over your shoulder and immediately regretted it.

He was there, just a few meters behind you. “Running again, are we?” he called out. “You should know by now—you can’t outrun the cold.”

You turned sharply around another corner, your breath hitching in your chest, but suddenly—bam!—another survivor came barreling around the corner.

“Watch it!” they hissed, just as panicked as you. It was Meg, her red hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, her eyes wide with fear. But before either of you could exchange another word, an icy gust cut through the hallway, and Meg’s eyes widened further.

“Run!” she shouted, but it was too late.

With a flick of his wrist, the shard slashed across Meg’s side, cutting through her jacket and drawing a scream from her lips.

You stumbled back, gasping as you watched in horror.

“Pathetic,” his cold, deep voice echoed, reverberating through the hallway. He stood over Meg, who writhed in pain at his feet, clutching her wound. “So flawed… so imperfect.” His tone was cutting, condescending, as if she were beneath him.

“You’re not worth my time,” he added, tilting his head as he stared down at her, his frostbitten fingers twitching.

Meg groaned and tried to crawl away, but he pressed the tip of his shard into the ground beside her, the ice creeping out in sharp, jagged patterns. He didn’t strike again, though—he didn’t need to. His words alone cut deeper than the shard itself.

“You’ve already been broken,” he sneered, stepping away from her as if she were nothing more than a discarded object.

From his side, he produced a small shard of mirror, its surface gleaming. He turned it in his hands with a strange gentleness, his icy fingers trailing along the edges of the shard as if it were a delicate treasure.

Meg whimpered, flinching as he tilted the shard toward her face. The distorted reflection that appeared in its surface made your breath hitch. It wasn’t just her face—it was a fractured version of her, revealing her deepest insecurities, her doubts, and fears. Her lips trembled as she stared at the cruel image, her reflection seeming to cry out silently as if begging for release.

"You see," he murmured, his voice quiet yet cutting, "this is what you truly are. Flawed. Fragile. Broken beyond repair."

Meg tried to look away, but he held the shard steady, forcing her to confront the image.

And then, with cold, unflinching precision, he drove the shard into her chest.

Her body arched with a strangled cry, her breath coming out in shallow gasps as the mirror shard pierced her heart.

Meg's movements stilled, her eyes glassy as the frost crept across her skin. He remained kneeling over her, watching as her life slipped away, the satisfaction in his expression subtle but unmistakable.

Standing slowly, he looked down at her lifeless body, his frosted hands carefully wiping the shard clean. He inspected it briefly, as if ensuring it was free of imperfection before tucking it away.

Then, he turned to you.

His icy blue eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“You however,” he said softly, his voice like frost creeping over glass, “are nothing like that.”

Your heart thundered in your chest as he began to move toward you, his steps slow and deliberate.

“So perfect,” he continued, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “But even perfection can be elevated.”

He stopped just a few feet away, his presence overwhelming as he tilted his head. “How much more beautiful you’d be…” His voice dipped, a cold whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “…as part of the ice.”

Before you could move, before you could even think, he was on you. His cold hand pressed against your shoulder, driving you back until your spine hit the wall with a muted thud. The opposing sensations—his cold and the warmth your body clung to—warred within you, leaving you frozen in more ways than one.

His gloved hand remained firm on your shoulder, holding you in place, while his other hand brushed against your cheek. The frost that followed his touch bloomed across your skin like a winter’s kiss, cold yet strangely… soothing.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice low and hypnotic, each word curling around you like an arctic breeze. “The warmth of life… fighting so desperately against the cold I bring.”

He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your skin like a whisper of frost. “It’s beautiful… the way your body responds. How it resists, yet…” He tilted his head, “you don’t pull away.”

Your teeth chattered as you tried to speak, but no words came.

“You’re so… fragile,” he continued, his voice soft yet laced with a dangerous edge. “So alive. And yet…” His hand moved from your cheek to trail along your jawline, his touch featherlight but freezing. “…it would take so little to turn you into something eternal. A perfect sculpture of ice.”

Your chest heaved as you struggled to keep your composure, the weight of his words sinking in. He leaned in closer, his face mere inches from yours now, his cold breath mingling with your warm exhalations.

“But not yet,” he whispered, his lips curling into that same pleased smirk. “Not when you’re this… captivating.”

His hand lingered for a moment longer before he suddenly stepped back, releasing you. The frost clinging to your skin and the wall behind you melted away almost instantly, leaving you trembling.

He turned away without another word, his presence still heavy in the air. For a moment, you thought he was leaving you, but then he glanced over his shoulder, his icy gaze piercing through you.

“Run,” he said softly, the word laced with chilling intent. “Let’s see how long that warmth of yours can last.”

Your breath hitched as the word settled in the air like a command, and without hesitation, your body obeyed. You pushed off the wall and bolted.

A sharp whoosh cut through the air, and you instinctively ducked, feeling the chilling breeze of his mirror shard slicing the air just behind you. It didn’t hit you—no, it never did—but it was close enough to send shivers crawling up your spine. He wasn’t trying to injure you. He wanted you to feel the cold, to know how close he was, to remind you that you were his to chase.

You rounded a corner, vaulting over a low counter in a desperate attempt to create some distance, but when you landed on the other side, his red light loomed just behind you. A low, cold laugh followed, echoing in the empty halls.

You made a sharp turn, vaulting over another obstacle, and finally, finally, you saw someone. A flash of movement—another survivor! Relief flooded through you as they ran toward you, their eyes wide with panic.

It was Jake.

He looked at you, then past you, his expression hardening as he realized who was chasing you. Without a word, he stepped forward, drawing the killer’s attention as you scrambled to the side, ducking into another hallway.

You hesitated for just a moment, watching as the killer’s calm gaze shifted to Jake. He didn’t speak this time, but there was something in his posture as if he were almost… displeased at the interruption.

Jake shouted, waving his arms to draw the killer further away. “Come one!” he yelled.

With one last glance, you turned and sprinted in the opposite direction, the sound of their footsteps fading behind you.

Eventually you found a dark, quiet corner where you could catch your breath.

You slumped against the wall, your body trembling from adrenaline and the lingering chill of his presence. Jake had bought you time, but you knew it wouldn’t last forever.

You stumbled into another corridor, your heart still racing as you scanned the area. The faint hum of a generator reached your ears, and you followed it like a lifeline. Turning a corner, your eyes landed on a half-finished generator sitting in the middle of a secluded room. Relief washed over you.

Quickly, you moved to it, crouching down and setting to work. Your hands shook, partially from the cold and partially from the lingering adrenaline, but you forced yourself to focus.

You flinched at the sudden distant sound of a scream. Someone had gone down—it was hard to tell who in the chaos of the trial—but you couldn’t think about that now.

Finally, the generator sparked to life, the room lighting up with the mechanical glow and you allowed yourself a small, shaky exhale of victory.

But then, the warmth in the air shifted.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as the icy feeling grew stronger. You froze in place, barely breathing, your eyes darting around the room.

The ground near your feet began to frost over, thin trails of ice spreading across the floor.

Panic surged through you, and your eyes scanned the room desperately. There—a locker, tucked into the corner. Without hesitation, you sprinted for it, careful to avoid making too much noise. You slipped inside and shut the door as quietly as you could, pressing your back against the wooden wall.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from making a sound, every muscle in your body tensing as the steps grew louder, closer. The frost crept higher on the walls, spiderwebbing like cracks in a mirror.

You crouched lower in the locker, your eyes fixed on the small gaps in the slats. Through them, you could see his figure moving closer, the frost trailing in his wake. It spread across the walls, over the floor, and finally, onto the locker itself.

You could feel the chill seeping through, making the air inside colder and colder. Your breath hitched in your throat as you tried desperately to stay silent, but the icy metal at your back made it nearly impossible to stay still.

Through the small gaps, you watched as he stopped right in front of the locker. He stood there for a moment, his back partially turned, scanning the room.

You thought he might leave, but then he turned back, facing the locker directly, standing perfectly still, only inches away from where you were hiding. For a moment, he seemed to just stand there, listening, the silence pressing down like a weight.

The frost continued to spread, climbing up the locker door and along its edges. The cold bit into your skin, making you shiver involuntarily. And that was your mistake.

The faintest sound of your breath slipping past your lips was enough.

His head tilted slightly, his sharp blue eye narrowing as he leaned forward. From the small gap, you could see his mouth curl into a smirk.

“I know you’re in there,” he said, his voice a soft, chilling whisper that made the frost seem warmer in comparison.

You stiffened, pressing your back harder against the frozen wood as he tapped a single finger on the locker door. “Are we playing hide-and-seek now?” he continued, his tone laced with amusement. “I thought you’d know by now—” he paused, leaning closer, so close that you swore his frosty breath was fogging the slats, “—I always win.”

For a horrifying moment, you thought he was going to rip the door open, his hand hovering close. But instead, he straightened up, taking a step back.

You let out a shaky breath, thinking for a second that he might leave. But then he raised his mirror shard and dragged it lightly against the edge of the locker door, the screech of ice making you wince.

“You know,” he began, his voice smooth and quiet, almost too calm, “there’s something about you… something that exhilarates me.” He let out a low chuckle, dragging the shard along the door one last time before stopping. “I’ve encountered many survivors, and they all blur together after a while. But you…” He paused, leaning closer so his breath frosted the slats of the locker. “You’re not like that.”

You could barely breathe, your entire body frozen—not from the cold, but from his words. The way he spoke wasn’t like the other killers you’d faced. There was no mockery, no irritation at your defiance.

“You’re so... special,” he murmured, the shard now resting against the locker as if he were caressing it. “Every time I see you, it’s like I’m looking at something perfect.” He chuckled again, low and chilling. “It makes me want to keep you forever. Preserve that beauty. Make it mine.”

Your heart stopped as his words sunk in, your breath caught in your throat. Before you could think to do anything—before you could even try to scramble or scream—the door to the locker swung open.

“Caught you,” he said softly, as if this was nothing more than a game.

You gasped as his arms reached in, effortlessly grabbing you. The frost where his hands touched your skin seeped into you immediately.

“Struggling won’t help,” he said, almost teasingly, as you tried to push against him. “Not that I want you to. I quite like the way you tremble.”

Before you could protest, he hoisted you up with a strength that made your attempts at resistance seem laughable. Your world tilted as he threw you over his shoulder, his grip firm but not painful. Before he started walking through the lab, while you squirmed in his hold, but it was no use.

--

Before you could fully comprehend what was happening, he shifted you off his shoulder and set you down with surprising care onto a cold, metal control table in the center of the lab. The frost beneath his boots crept up the legs of the table, spreading like spiderwebs across the surface and surrounding you in a halo of icy mist.

You tried to sit up, but he leaned forward, his hand pressing against your shoulder to keep you in place. “You’re quite predictable, you know,” he said, his voice low and smooth, with a tinge of amusement. “Always fighting. Always running. But here you are under me again.”

His lips curved into that same faint, knowing smirk that made your chest tighten. He shifted slightly closer, his free hand resting on the edge of the table, boxing you in.

“You’re the last one left again,” he murmured, almost like he was savoring the words. “Everyone else has fallen. And yet… here you are. Stubborn as ever.”

Your stomach twisted at his words. The others were gone. You were the last survivor again, and there was still one generator left to finish.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, your pulse thundering in your ears as you glanced around the room, searching desperately for some kind of opening, anything to get away. But his body blocked most of your view, and the frost on the walls behind him seemed to spread as if sealing off any potential escape.

“Such a mouth,” he teased, his voice almost a whisper now, his frosty breath grazing your lips. “But I like your fire. It makes it so much more satisfying to snuff it out.”

His hand moved slowly to rest on your chest, the chill of his touch sinking deep into your skin. A shiver ran down your spine as you watched in wide-eyed disbelief. Frost spread outward from where his palm met your chest, intricate patterns blooming like frozen flowers across your skin. It didn’t feel painful—it was cold, yes, but strangely gentle, almost mesmerizing. You couldn’t help but stare at the crystalline designs etching themselves over you.

“You see?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, laced with a quiet satisfaction. “Perfection.”

Your gaze snapped up to meet his as he stepped back slightly. His free hand rose, tugging at the edge of his cracked mirror mask. With a deliberate, almost theatrical motion, he removed it, letting the light fully illuminate his face for the first time.

He was… beautiful. His features were sharp and striking, carved with the same precision as the frost he wielded. A few thin scars adorned his face, faint but noticeable. His eyes glowed faintly, studying you intently, as though you were some kind of masterpiece he’d just completed.

“You complement me so perfectly now,” he said softly, as his eyes lingered on the frost spreading over your skin. His gaze was equal parts admiration and possessiveness, as if you were a creation he had shaped with his own hands.

You wanted to speak, to tell him to stop, to push him away, but the words caught in your throat. There was something about the way he looked at you that made it impossible to move.

“You’re so beautiful” he continued, his cold fingers tracing a line along the frost-covered patterns on your arms. “Now… now you’re mine. A canvas perfected by my touch.”

Your breathing hitched as his hand paused, his icy fingertips resting just over your racing pulse. His face was so close now that you could feel the frost in his breath, mingling with the warmth of yours.

“You’ve always stood out,” he said, his tone softening, almost tender. “Among all the others, you are the only one worth keeping.” As his hand rested on your chest, he leaned closer, his lips curling into a faint smile. “I wonder,” he mused softly, his voice almost a whisper now, “how much more beautiful you’ll be… once the ice fully claims you.”

Before you could react, he leaned in, his cold lips pressing against yours. The icy chill of his kiss sent a jolt through your body, and you gasped sharply, the frost on your skin seeming to tighten as if it were alive, responding to his touch. His lips, though cold, were strangely soft it left you reeling, unsure whether to pull away or melt into it.

His hands moved swiftly, capturing yours as your instincts kicked in to push him away. He intertwined his fingers with yours, locking them together. His grip wasn’t forceful, but it was firm, as though he was making sure you wouldn’t escape. The frost from his hands seeped into yours, spreading the intricate, shimmering patterns further up your arms.

When he pulled back, his lips hovered just inches from yours, and you could see his breath crystallizing in the cold air between you. “You even sound so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, as though sharing a secret meant only for you. His thumbs brushed lightly over the backs of your hands, sending another shiver coursing through your body. “I could get used to hearing the sounds i could get out of you.”

You tried to tug your hands free, but his fingers tightened slightly, holding you there. “Why fight it?” he whispered, tilting his head, his tone almost coaxing. “You belong here. With me. Look at yourself—you’re already becoming part of the ice.”

Your gaze flickered downward for a moment, catching the glittering frost climbing your arms, wrapping around your wrists like delicate, frozen chains. It was as if the cold itself was claiming you, binding you to him.

“Don’t you see?” he continued, his voice filled with a chilling certainty. “No one else could ever understand your beauty the way I do. No one else could ever deserve you.”

His hands tightened just slightly around yours, pulling you closer as his lips brushed against your ear. “Let me show you how much you mean to me,” he whispered, his breath icy against your skin, sending another shiver down your spine.

His hands suddenlt slid to the hem of your sweater, the cold of his fingers making your breath hitch as he slowly pulled the fabric upward. The icy chill wrapped around you like a second skin, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

As the fabric bunched up, exposing more of your skin, you felt his lips brush against your stomach—a fleeting, ghostly kiss that left a trail of frost in its wake. His kisses were cold but delicate, as if he were crafting something beautiful out of your very existence. The frost spread wherever his lips touched, etching intricate, crystalline patterns onto your skin like a frozen work of art.

You shivered, your teeth threatening to chatter as the frost claimed more of you, but the chill didn’t burn.

“You don’t even realize how perfect you are, do you?” he murmured against your skin, his lips grazing along the curve of your collarbone. His voice was softer now, almost tender. “Each mark I leave… it suits you. Makes you mine.”

His hands trailed along your sides, the frost blooming under his touch like winter flowers. You gasped softly as his lips pressed against your chest, leaving behind more intricate frost.

“I could cover every inch of you,” he continued, his voice deepening as he leaned back to admire his handiwork. His eyes sparkled with an unearthly glow as they traced the frosty designs now covering your skin. “You were made for this. For me.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, but the words caught in your throat as he leaned in again, his lips brushing yours so faintly it was maddening. “Don’t fight it,” he whispered, his voice as chilling as his touch. “You’re already mine.”

The frost tightened its hold on you, the cold sinking deeper into your skin as if binding you to him, you couldn’t tell whether it was fear or something else entirely keeping you from pulling away.

a/n: my mom is sick so i was filling up a hot water bag but i squeezed too tight so i spilled the water on my chest :p pray my piercing dont get irritated...

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[eph3merall]

— matt sturn .

soft touches and lingering hugs. intertwined fingers with nails that scratch lightly at the others' hand, thumb rubbing gentle circles on his knuckles. memorizing and committing each dip and curve of his hand to your mind. engraving the softness of skin into your brain, carving a space in your head dedicated for this information.

matt didnt care.

he didnt try, gave no effort. no attempts were made to memorize the way your fingers curved, how your skin is rougher in some patches. his mind was elsewhere, whereas each fleeting thought you had was about matt. you seemed content, while annoyance flashed onto his face. his features seemed tense, as if discomfort pulled his mucles taut.

pulling away would make you erupt in silent disappointment. he had no desire for that, knowing it would be exhausting to deal with you. he often 'dealt' with you, as if you were simply just a child—feelings on 100% all the time, having to be careful of how he acted and spoke around you. his hand grips yours harder, fingertips digging into your skin.

silence surrounds the both of you. it felt as if you two were in your own little world, a private screen protecting you from anything aiming to hurt you. yet, the one that would hurt you most, was sat next to you.

to be clueless is to feel bliss. you aren't stupid.

it was as if the sounds of nature ceased to exist. the rustle of leaves and branches when a breeze blew. the crickets. the whistle of wind that sounds like a call to you, shrill and annoying. it felt silent, deathly so. did you choose to block out the calls of mother nature? the hushed voice of the wind that seemed to tell you to get away, the eery chirp of crickets that told you you weren't in for anything good with the man next to you. did you have a desire to block it all out? not entirely. you've always been big on nature.

but, the thing is, you wanted things to work out with matt. this desperation consumed you, clawing at your limbs, tugging on your body, down a hole of distress that seemed impossible to climb out of.

if someone were to gaze at the two of you above, matt would be highlighted in black. dark strokes of dripping ink, rough lines and jagged angles and corners. compared to you, the softness of a new paintbrush. precise strokes of white paint, rounded edges, mini details. taking care to include the little things.

like yin and yang.

your eyes shut, content in this moment. you feel your palm start to sweat a little, or maybe that's matt. the urge to tilt your head, to glance at him, see if the usual frown he had was still on his face. maybe you just want to know if he likes you too, even just a little.

you'll take anything, at this point.

the desperation claws at you, like a rabid animal. razor sharp claws sink into your skin, tearing through flesh and reaching the deepest parts inside you. it had no mercy, grabbing mindlessly at your heart, wrapping it up in a tight fist, making it seem like the only way to feel alright again was to have matt.

he was nice. no, that's a lie, he was an asshole. he's said it himself. maybe you wanted to prove him wrong, prove to him that he wasn't all bad. make him see himself how you saw him, with adoration and admiration.

matt knew how you stared at him. he could see the endless yearning in your eyes, and he hated it. because he knows you're stubborn, knows you're persistent. it's normally a good trait, but in this case, he can't help but wish you were the total opposite.

he doesn't know why he feels such negative feelings towards you. there was nothing inherently wrong with you or your character. you were goddamn sweet as honey, a timid smile on your face just at the sound of his voice. it makes him sick. you feel for other people, empathetic in every sense possible.

you'd give up a lung if he asked you to. you'd do anything.

"matt."

"no. shut up."

he panicked. the tone of your voice suggested you were about to say something that would've pissed him off.

your lips are parted, words on the tip of your tongue. you gulp them back down, nodding a few times and turning your head back to gaze at the stars. your heart is beating rapidly, and you swore your entire body was jolting with each thump thump thump of the organ.

matt has his eyes closed. his hand has loosened in yours, however, his thumb pressed hard into your skin. you turn your head, eyes softening at the look of his face. your hand grips his just a little tighter, breath hitching. you're enamored with him, his entire being. you will never understand why he chose to be so harsh on himself. you will never understand what you must do to be with him. you will nevee get what was wrong with you.

admiration swam in your eyes. a soft smile stretches on your face, even as gentle tears prick at your eyes.

"i love you."

no answer. that was for the best, anyways. you know the answer matt has will wreck you. it'll split you apart, leave you as nothing but two halves of one person, leaving a scar that will always bleed.

—

an. hi guys ! idk what this is nor what i wanted the topic of this to be. finished this today n scheduled it so i didnt have to see what people said about it when it posted ,, idk how to feel about it :/ im working on actual reqs tho i promise guys. been writing a lot of angst lately.

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©eph3merall 2025

[consistencynevermether]

Ice cold: Astarion x reader

content: ascended Astarion x gn tav, angst, tav is goin through it in this one yall, i give karlach a more hopeful ending in the background bc i just want her to be happy, karlach and tav besties agenda, sfw, cannon typical violence

summary: after breaking it off with ascended Astarion, you meet again at a winter ball

word count: 6k (apparently i cant shut up about this man)

a/n: man i gotta write more happy Astarion content fr i keep putting this man in situations.

How many years had it been since you’d seen Astarion? 3? 5? Maybe more? You try to remember what your last moments with him were like before you decided to break things off. It was definitely after he ascended, but was it before you had gotten rid of the tadpole, or after? Honestly, after a while things had started to blur together really. After so many years, only the painful parts remained clear in your memory. How you, with tears in your eyes, had told him you couldn’t do this anymore. And the look of condescending and uncaring as he stared back. It had shattered you into a million pieces to end things with Astarion, but it would have hurt even more if you had stayed. Whoever he had become after he ascended, it wasn’t your astarion, not really.

Why were you reminiscing about your lost love? Well because after all these years apart, he was now standing about 5 feet away from you. Gods above how did you get yourself in this situation?

Let’s start a few years back after Astarion had left to be the new lord of Baldur’s Gate and you had stayed, shattered. Having to pick up the broken pieces of what you once were, having to figure out who you would be without him. You probably should have taken some time alone, now that you think about it. Processed your emotions, talked to a professional, properly mourned what you had lost before continuing on.

Of course, you had done the opposite and instead had decided to travel with Karlach and Wyll to Avernus. Going to hell is probably not the best way to cope with a breakup, but that was the only option anyone could think of to try and save Karlach from the fate of the engine in her chest. And after what had happened to Astarion you just-

You just couldn’t 

You couldn’t lose someone else, if you did, you felt like you would have been shattered past the point of repair. You couldn’t take losing one of your only friends right after losing your love. So you gathered up the broken pieces of yourself and headed straight into the hells. 

You were down there for a few years probably. 

Maybe? 

Honestly, you didn’t remember. Time became sluggish and foggy after Astarion had left because it kept marching forward, away from your time together with him.

Yet in the end, Karlach had gotten her engine fixed and all 3 of you had climbed out of hell. A few more burn marks and scars, but nothing more than that had changed. Physically at least.

You had somehow managed to put your broken pieces back together, but you weren’t the same as before. You didn’t feel complete, more like a jumble of razor-sharp shards being forcefully welded together trying to imitate what you once were. But now you were jagged, and cracked, and tired

Gods, you were tired. The dark circles under your eyes never left, no matter how much you slept. Or tried to sleep that is.

Sometimes in the dead of night, you would replay Astarion's ascendance in your mind over and over again, wondering what you could have done differently then. Or even before. Where had you gone wrong? Was there another outcome that you failed to make happen? Was there another reality where the two of you were happy together? Gods how that thought hurt. 

 Sometimes, you thought about the what-ifs. You imagined what would have happened if he hadn’t chosen to ascend. What both of you could have been. What you so desperately wanted but could never reach. Eventually, you stopped that line of thought at night. It was too crushing to imagine how things could have been different. What you could have done differently. 

After emerging from hell, you had on and off traveled with some of your previous party. 

You and Wyll had headed to Waterdeep once to help Gale with a sea monster problem 

In an amusing team-up, you had helped Halsin and Lazel find an enchanted bracelet they were both searching for, though they both argued on how to act upon most things during that entire adventure, so you had felt almost like it was a babysitting gig the entire trip. 

There was also that time you helped Minsc dispose of some bandits robbing people near Baldur's gate, but you had dealt with that sorry lot fairly quickly and got far away from Baldur's Gate even quicker. You didn’t want to accidentally run into a certain lord. 

And now you had an entirely new quest, in the bitter cold land of Sossal. A few weeks ago, you met back up with Karlach who apparently had been looking for you.

It’s not that you disliked seeing Karlach at all, in fact, you were both very close, which was part of the problem really. Part of why it stung a little to see her. 

She saw you. She saw how much you hurt even after all this time. Your other friends seemed to have assumed that you had gotten better. That over time you had healed and it had gotten easier for you to come to terms with leaving Astarion. But Karlach knew the truth, She saw right through you, and it was mortifying. That every day the hole inside your heart had just got wider. She feared it would swallow you up one day, and you didn’t blame her. It didn’t help that being around her just made you feel so

Pathetic. 

She had been to literal Hell and back and could still smile and laugh, while you had only lost one person and had cracked and splintered like glass. It hurt to see the light that shined off her while you could only fall deeper into darkness. 

Of course, you knew none of that was her fault, you only had yourself to blame for who you were, so when she came asking for help, you didn’t hesitate to say yes. 

She was having engine troubles again. It wasn’t as bad as before, thank the gods, but it did have a tendency to overheat ever so slightly whenever she felt a strong emotion, and if you didn’t do something one wrong spook could set her ablaze. Luckily she had gone to Gale first and discovered a gem Called the frostbite tear. He could attune the gem to Karlach and make it so that every time her engine began to overheat, the jewel would immediately cool it down, negating the problem before it became a real issue like when you had first met her. Last anyone had heard of the gem it was with some noble in Sossal. 

So here you were. You, Karlach, Shadowheart, and Gale all together at the midwinters ball held here in the capital. Gale had procured the invites for you all, and every noble in Sossal, plus some from other territories, would be here for this celebration. Gale had even been nice enough to give you a beautiful outfit for the ball, made of silvery-white sparking silk. It reminded you of fresh snowfall on a winter's night. Admittedly it wasn’t very practical, and Gale did make you shower before putting it on. (Rude. You didn’t think you smelled t h a t bad.)

You were so focused on helping find this noble (and robbing him of the frostbite tear) that you hadn’t even considered Astarion might be here. 

Not up until the moment that his vibrant red eyes locked onto yours across the room. 

You couldn’t move. Everything was moving too fast and also in slow motion. Your legs felt like lead and your mouth was bone dry. The numbness that had settled in your chest for years now cracked open with new pain, and you weren’t sure which of the sensations you hated more. 

All all this panic and emotions, and yet in your mind all you could think of was how he looked just the same as the day you left. He hadn’t changed. And that made it all the harder. Because now it was easier to forget all the years between you two. He still looked the same as what you saw when you closed your eyes each night. It was Astarion. But on closer examination, not your Astarion. 

There was a coldness to him now. A certain reservation in his smile that made you feel like you would be a mere annoyance to him if you dared to approach. He seemed sharper somehow as well, like a finely honed blade. And his attire was extravagantly beautiful, the white fur-lined cloak he was wearing was probably more expensive than anything you had ever owned, including your current attire. 

You were so busy taking this all in mentally that when you went to glance at him again he was gone. For a split second, you genuinely wondered if you had finally snapped and just hallucinated all of that when an all too familiar hand took yours. 

You hadn't looked away for more than a second and astarion was right there in front of you, kissing your knuckles. The brush of his lips on your skin was nearly enough to bring you to your knees. All these years, and he still had so much power over you with one little motion.

To any outsider, this looked like quite the cute interaction really. The handsome new lord of Baldur's gate spots an incomparable beauty from across the room and is instantly smitten, so he effortlessly woes them the second he steps into the ballroom. But life is no romantic play. 

“Hello darling, it certainly has been a while. We simply must catch up” 

Before you could even attempt to respond, his hands were around your waist, guiding you to the dancefloor as the orchestra began to play, and other couples began to join the dancefloor as well. 

You’d hoped maybe the dance would save you from the conversation, but it seemed the opposite was what occurred, as Astarion leaned closer to your ear to whisper, “So, 7 years without a trace, and suddenly you show up looking positively exquisite. Do tell me what you’ve been up to.” 

Your mouth opens to respond, but you realize you have no idea what to say. What could you possibly say to him, and why would you even say it? 

Luckily you were spared any more torture when you noticed Astarion staring intently at your neck. The sight reminded you of that night you found out he was a vampire spawn, and you had let him drink from you for the first time. But instead of hunger Astarions brown was furrowed with another emotion. Annoyance? Concern? Worry? You couldn’t tell anymore. It had been years since you could tell what Astarion was thinking

His voice broke the silence once again. 

“Is this new?” His long pale fingers brushed across the burn scar near your collarbone.

Ah. So that’s what he was staring at. 

“Well it’s been there a few years, so I wouldn’t really consider it new but-“ you shrug at the end of your sentence, and you both know what you meant. It was only new to him. He may have stayed unchanged all these years, but you certainly hadn’t. And it seemed Astarion was beginning to notice. 

His eyes raked over you, taking in the changes. You were a bit more muscular now, all that constant fighting no doubt. Your new(er) scars were more visible in this outfit, which admittedly was a little revealing and definitely not meant to withstand the harsh outside winter. And the years now showed in the tired look in your eyes. You imagine that your eyes aged you quite a bit honestly, maybe you should be shocked he even recognized you now. 

“So”, he started, decidedly keeping his hand firmly around your waist so you couldn’t run from the conversation, “when you made my undead heart beat again only to toss it on the ground at my feet again like it was nothing all those years ago, I always imagined how nice it would feel to see you struggle while I thrived as lord of Baldur's Gate.” 

Wow. Impressively bad flirting. Had he gotten worse at this over the years? Or maybe he just detested you so much he didn’t even think there was a point in even pretending to like you anymore. 

“But now that I’m actually here and you look-“

He gestured at you vaguely 

“Well a bit like you’d been the one who got dumped, it doesn’t feel very satisfying.” 

“Mhm,” you responded, in a stroke of pure poetry. 

“Darling, you have to give me more than that. The silent treatment after all this time is just petty, even for me.”

He had a point. And part of you did want to know-

“How have you been, Astarion?” 

His steps faltered a little when you said his name, but he quickly recovered, smoothly continuing the dance 

He smirked, his fangs visible on one side “Well certainly better than you if I had to wager, the stuff under my eyes is eyeliner, not sleep deprivation side effects.”

You close the distance between you two involuntarily to get a closer look at his face. He was wearing some sort of golden liquid as eyeliner on his bottom lids. It was subtle but beautiful, and it shined when the light hit his face just right. On instinct, you began to reach towards his face, but you quickly stopped yourself. You needed to stay focused, damnit. You were here to help Karlach.

Astarion's smooth voice cut in once again. “Still making me do all the talking? Honestly, I don’t ever remember you being this quiet before.” 

You startled and realized you had been staring at his face for a while, and then trying to snap yourself out of it, all while not making a sound

Gods you don’t remember it being this hard to talk to him. But then again, you found it harder to talk to anyone these days. you just-

You just didn’t expect that to also apply to Astarion. Further proof that despite him looking the same, there was distance now. A silent gaping chasm that you had no way to cross. But that is what you wanted, wasn't it? To get away from this Astarion. The one who considered you a pet, or an object to be displayed. Treasured, and loved, but never his equal. Never fully having free will, everything you would have done would have had to be something he approved of. 

You loved him, more than anything. You still did. Deep down you knew you would die for this twisted version of your love, and if he asked you to rip out your own heart and serve it to him, you would. But you couldn’t be with him. Everything else you would do for him, but that was where you drew the line. It hurt too much, to be reminded every day of what you had lost. Of what you have failed to protect. That sweet high elf with a silver tongue and a heart of gold he let so few see. The one who wished for freedom more than anything, but still stuck by your side. Because at some point, he wanted to be free with you. And that was not this Astarion. 

Despite all that, just for this moment, you wanted to forget it all. To be held in his arms once again. Maybe, if the gods blessed you, see a real smile of his. You just wanted this one moment. Then your greedy heart would be satisfied. You could burn this image of the two of you dancing forever in your mind and have it sustain you. You’d gladly take another trip to the hells if it meant just a moment where you could pretend you were with your astarion. The one that lived on in your memories. Though you didn’t dare hope that he was still in there somewhere, you don’t think your heart could take it. 

You inhale deeply and begin to talk. You tell him about the quests you’ve been on, the adventures you’ve had, what you’ve been up to these past years. Including why you were here, and your quest to help Karlach and find the frostbite tear.

Eventually, you get to the point where you tell him why you're here, and what you're looking for. But as you do you see a scowl twist on his face. 

“Astarion?” You question, “What’s bothering you?”

He huffs in reply, and you can’t help but smirk. 

“I’m sorry but I do remember someone just talking about how petty the silent treatment is.” You prod, and lock eyes, a sign for him to tell you what’s on his mind

He rolls his eyes at your persistence, but nonetheless, he begins to speak. 

“Hm. Just seems like you and Karlach are so very happy together. A bit of a downgrade if you ask me, but that’s certainly no fault of hers. I mean, once you’ve had me, all you can do is go down from there.” 

“Karlach and I aren’t dating.” You deadpan. 

She was more like a sister to you than anything, and besides you’re pretty sure she already has eyes for someone. 

“Oh?” Astarions eyebrow raises. “So who have you been shagging all these years then? Wyll? Shadowheart? Surely not Gale. Oh please tell me it’s not Gale, I think that might actually hurt my feelings a little if we both shared being to your tastes.” 

“Be nice. Gales is a good friend. FRIEND. They all are. And to answer your prying question, I’m not with anyone. Not since you.” 

It was true. You hadn’t loved anyone since astarion. It just didn’t feel right. Even the idea of a casual fling didn’t feel at all satisfying. And there was no way you would actually consider dating someone again. Not when Astarion still held your heart. 

You could see a few emotions go across Astarion’s face, but you couldn’t recognize them. You remember when you used to be able to know what he was thinking, when he was lying or not. But not anymore. Maybe it was because he was always putting on some act now. 

As you stared, his hand wrapped around your waist and for a breathless moment, he effortlessly lifted you up into the air, gently twirling you around him. then he put you down and smoothly continued the dance as if that was always part of the steps. 

Your face flushed at the amount of contact, and the smirk once again graced Astarion’s lips.

“So, nobody since me? Seems like someone’s not quite over the Lord of Baldur’s Gate.” He singsonged, taking great pleasure in how momentarily flustered you were. “It's ok if you're not over me darling, I can’t blame you.” 

Clearly, he meant this as a joke, one you were supposed to roll your eyes at and ignore. But there was no point in lying, so you just nodded and continued the steps of the dance. 

Astarion stopped dead in his tracks. 

“I-

Wait what? You're still-

Ah- 

You're not over me?” 

“Astarion, the song isn’t over.” You tried to nudge him back into the dance, but his feet were planted firmly, and he wasn’t going to budge. 

“Answer me.” 

You sigh. He wasn’t going to move. So now you were just standing here. In the middle of a ballroom. With everyone else dancing around you. Great. This was super inconspicuous and undercover. 

“I will only continue to talk if you move your damn feet Astarion. Hells I’m supposed to be blending in not standing out.” You hiss and kick at the side of his shoes to indicate for him to get moving.

He recognizes the determination in your eyes and you can see him deciding mentally that he’ll probably get his answer sooner if he does as you ask, so he picks up the dance once again. His grip on your waist is now like iron though, not painful in any way, but there’s absolutely no way you could get out of his grasp now. Not even if you put all your efforts into trying. 

His eyes never left yours, his intense stare practically commanding you to talk.

Which you did say you would do. 

“I still love you.” You shrug. “Never stopped loving you.”

“Then why did you leave?” The hurt in his voice is evident, and you immediately feel like someone hurled a spear of ice directly into your chest. 

You can barely raise your voice above a whisper without it cracking. “You know why. I already told you when I left.” 

“Bullshit. Because you loved the person that I was? He was pathetic. Only a fool would want the lesser version.” His voice was like ice, you could feel the hatred he held for himself.

And you instantly felt your anger flare up at his words.

“Don’t you ever talk about-

About him like that”

It felt weird referring to past Astarion as someone else. But it was true. They were two completely different people now. And honestly, you didn’t care about the semantics, your blood was practically boiling. 

“He was the love of my life. He was everything to me. So don’t you dare insult him.” You spat, practically seeing red

Astarion's face twisted in rage. 

“Maybe you liked me pathetic, hm? Maybe the only way you could possibly love me was if I was beneath you. A precious pet spawn, entirely dependent on you, living in your shadow to protect me from the sun that I now bask in.” He sneered, meeting your rage with his own.

And just like that, you had shattered all over again. 

It was your turn to stop dancing now, unmoving in the sea of swaying nobles. 

Astarion's rage seemed to have flickered out seeing the look on your face.

What did your face look like? Were you shocked? Were you crying? Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could register the feeling of hot tears down your cheeks, but you paid it no heed. 

Instead, you wrapped your arms around Astarion, putting your face in the crook of his neck. 

Astarion completely froze at the sudden contact, not even taking a breath. Although he probably didn’t need to actually breathe anyways so maybe that was normal.

“I’m sorry. If-

-If you truly believe that I ever thought that way about you, then I messed up beyond repair. I'm so sorry.” 

You tried to continue, to apologize for all the times you had failed him. For making him feel like that. But you realized you couldn’t speak. Your body was silently heaving with sobs, tears flowing down your face and ruining Astarion's nice clothing.

Great. You couldn’t even cry without screwing him over. And this was definitely not inconspicuous. 

You lifted your head, making a move to step away, but as you did you saw a blue glint on one of the lapels of some well-dressed lord.

Holy shit.

The frostbite tear. You had found it. And all it took was sobbing on your ex to spot the damn thing. That didn’t make you feel pathetic at all. Though admittedly this was the perfect distraction from this soul-crushing conversation. Maybe with any luck you wouldn’t even have to address that embarrassing display that no doubt disgusted astarion, he was probably hoping you’d get the hell off him already.

So you did just that, jerking back from the hug and keeping your eyes glued on the gem. 

“Astarion look. It’s the frostbite tear. On that lord.”

But you could tell Astarion’s eyes were firmly glued to your face. 

You tried to slip away, to follow the frostbite tears owner and relieve him from its ownership, whether that be by swiping it, lying, or just straight up threatening the guy. But Astarion held you firmly in place. 

“What are you doing?” You whispered, to not startle your target. “He’s right there. Let go.”

“You can’t just drop that on me and leave” he whisper-yelled back 

“I’m not leaving, I’m just grabbing something real quick. Now let go, it’ll take 5 minutes tops.”

“What if you decide you don’t wanna talk again and run off?” He countered 

“Then you can corner me because you're the vampire ascendant.” 

“What if he catches you and you get arrested?”

“Then you can visit me in jail because you're the vampire ascendant.” 

“What if-“

Oh for fucks sake. 

“Whatever happens, I assure you, you will be able to say whatever you want to me after because you are the vampire ascendant. You made that fact very clear to me when we were together. Now let go.” You cut him off, and then try once again to move towards the target. But his grip remained firm 

You look up at him, now filled with annoyance and desperation. The noble could escape if you didn’t do something now, and yet Astarion seemed insistent on trapping you. 

“Just one more dance, alright?” He bargained.

Unbelievable. That was his priority? You knew it had been a while but you never expected him to disregard a former ally so blatantly. Karlach needed this. 

But upon closer inspection, he almost looked… a little guilty? Worried maybe? That didn’t seem right. What on earth?

Just then, Astarion pushed your face into his chest, wrapping his arms around you, almost protective. Protective but restrictive. You couldn’t move away no matter how much you pushed on his chest or tried to slip out of his hold. 

“Astarion. Let. Go.” You hissed.

But your attempts at breaking free immediately stopped when you heard an ear-piercing screech and the sound of heavy footsteps. 

On instinct, you reached for where your weapon would normally be, but you had nothing on you. Shadowheart had a few small weapons concealed on her in case things got messy, considering her attire was a bit more conservative than yours, but she wasn’t anywhere near you now. 

Damnit. On instinct, you tried to twist around in Astarion's grasp to a more protective stance. Of course, you knew he didn’t need your protection at all, it was just a base instinct kicking in. Unfortunately, he didn’t allow you to move out of his grasp, so all you could do was squirm. 

“What is wrong with you??” You practically shouted. If there was danger, then just standing here like this would leave you both wide open. Had he lost all common sense? 

Unless- 

At that exact point, a guard of the lord of Sossal burst through the doors, covered in blood. 

“Vampire spawn are attacking the gates!” She exclaimed, cradling her arm, which was profusely bleeding. 

“I didn’t know you would be here.” He murmurs, almost as if he’s telling this to himself more than you. 

He wasn’t trying to keep you here, you realize. He was protecting you. None of the spawn would dare come near you if they saw Astarion holding you like this. 

But at this moment you didn’t care. For years you had mourned over the loss of your Astarion. You had tried so hard, attempting to separate him from this ascended Astarion. But you had never been truly able to get over him, to accept he was gone. Because deep, deep down, no matter what you told yourself, you still believed he was in there somewhere. Behind all the silks and sharp gazes.

And you felt that hope die as you heard the hissing of the dozens of spawn outside, mingled with the screams and cries of the guards. He was gone. And your heart was shattered all over again. 

But it was different this time. Before, you had pulled yourself together again, deformed and jagged, but still together. You couldn’t do that this time. There was no coming back from this. You could feel it. This pain wouldn’t fade. But there was something else there that wasn’t there before. Anger.

Astarion was protecting you, yes, but Gale, Shadowheart, and Karlach were here too. If the spawn got into the ballroom, they would be in danger. Not to mention this made procuring the frostbite tear infinitely more difficult. 

Rage burned in your eyes, and for the first time, you saw the great vampire ascendant stumble over his words a little, as he tried to explain something about how the lord of Sossal had insulted him, but you weren’t listening. 

While Astarion was struggling to explain himself, you realized he wasn’t paying as much attention to you. Good.

In one swift movement, you slipped out of his grasp and frantically looked around, searching for your friends. It was nearly impossible to hear anything over the screaming and panic of the nobles. It also wasn’t helping that Astarion was probably going to be right on your heels the second he recovered. Or maybe he’d just leave you to be eaten by his spawn. You didn’t really care. 

After continuing to weave your way past frantic nobles and shouting their names, you were able to see a red hand waving you down from the far left balcony. It was Karlach, and she was with Gale and Shadowheart. Good. With all 3 of them together any spawn that came after them would be screwed. But you still had a mission to complete.

You looked up at Shadowheart and held your hand out for a weapon. You were going to track down that damn gem if it killed you. That noble was about to have a very bad day. Well. A worse day. 

You were focusing all your hurt onto this, all your rage. But you needed to. You needed it because you had no idea what else you could do now. You needed something to focus on. Something to distract you from your shattered heart. 

Shadowheart saw your determination and tossed a short sword down to you. Not your preferred weapon of choice, but it would do.

You whipped around, hand around the short sword at the ready, but also because it felt grounding, to be fighting once again. Now it was time to hunt down your prey.

You quickly ran in the direction you’d last seen, glancing over every lapel for that glowing blue light. It was hard, many of the nobles were dressed in a winter theme, so shades of white, silver, and blue were all too common in the sea of panic. 

You continued to push past nobles, searching for that faint blue glow. You refused to let this go, you would not let Karlach down. You fought for too many years in hell getting the engine in her repaired to go all the way back to square one again. 

You feel yourself tunnel vision on finding a blue light, your head whipping back and forth on the hunt, it felt good to let everything else fade away into numbness as your only thought is tracking down this gem.

A glimmer out of the corner of your eye. A flash of blue. The shine of fine silk. There he was. In a crowd of panicked nobles trying to run into other parts of the castle and hide from Astarion's horde gathering outside. Honestly, it was a pretty understandable reaction, you didn't blame him for running at all, but you needed that gem. You hope he survived honestly.

Survived.

Because Astarion planned to turn this place into a bloodbath. Your Astarion. The one who you had sat under the stars with, and he would teach you all the constellations whose names you didn't know, his silky voice lulling you to sleep when insomnia or worry had hit you. 

You'd rather still be in the hells honestly. 

You took a deep breath, centering yourself back to the present. Get the gem. 

You dashed after the noble, drawing your shortsword and charging at the man. If possible, you'd do this quickly.

Ducking under the other guests, you grab this unfortunate noble by the collar, the moment you do he screeches, clearly fearing the worst. Luckily for him, you were only after his gem, not his blood. With one slice you cut the gem off the cloak, shredding the beautiful white fabric. 

Not even bothering to explain yourself to him, you pocket your prize and turn on your heel, heading back in your friend's direction, when all of a sudden you hear the noble you had just stolen from scream again. But this time it was followed by the screams of a few others 

You look back and that’s when you see her. A vampire spawn. Clearly on her way to the ballroom, but judging by her smile, it was clear she had just found some horderves. 

You could have run. You were the only person with a weapon and the farthest away from her. She definitely wouldn’t pick you as her first target, she’d go for one of the defenseless nobles right next to her. You should have met up with the others and gotten the hells out of this place.

But the noble whose lapel you had just torn apart was so young. They were people. Scared people who got unlucky and were about to die because someone had offended the great vampire ascendant. Maybe you wanted to save them. But more likely, you just wanted something to take your anger out on. Or maybe you were just dumb as a rock.

But regardless you turned around and began to sprint towards the spawn instead of away, angling your weapon so that you would have the perfect angle to go for her collarbone. 

Yet as soon as you locked her on as a target, her eyes went wide with..fear? She was a vampire spawn, surely she’d had a few of her victims fight back yes? Was this her first hunt? 

Soon you realized that wasn’t the case at all as you felt a chill run down your spine. Even now with all his power, it wasn’t hard for you to identify the presence now standing menacingly right behind you. The familiar smell of bergamot filled your senses with the closeness. You could feel his chest pressed against your back. You didn’t know what kind of face Astarion was making right now, but whatever it was, it terrified the vampire spawn, her form now shaking and cowering before her master. 

Funny. Even now after everything, you couldn’t find astarion scary. You probably should, considering how he just appeared behind you. But after everything you still couldn’t. 

There was no point in delaying this any further. You turn around, and as you do his eyes immediately move from the spawn back to you. And his gaze softened. Before this whole ordeal that single action probably would have caused you to melt. But now it was different. You had already resigned yourself to being without him. You couldn’t turn back time. You couldn’t save him. All you could do now was try and find a way forward. And you certainly wouldn’t find that staring into his crimson eyes. 

This felt awful. You felt awful. Walking away from him now didn’t feel like closure, it felt like someone had just stopped writing on the page mid-sentence. But you had to stop. Just stop. You couldn’t spend the rest of your life like this, mourning what you lost. Astarion would have an eternity to forget about you, but you only had this one life. And for the first time in a long time, you finally felt like you wanted to move forward with your life. To start living again. You were still mad. And upset. And it still hurt. But you wanted to get better. 

So you turned around, not looking at Astarion, and left. Walked right past him without saying a word. You didn’t know what he would do. Let you leave and forget you ever existed? Grab your arm and try to talk again? Decide he had had enough and just drain you dry? You honestly had no idea anymore. But you knew one thing.

You wouldn’t be the one to look back.

[iamthecomet]

Dear Comet, if you are still accepting prompts - Please - thrusts into your hands my fav rarepair - Cowbell/Aeon #20.

Ok, so like, I have barely written Cowbell, so I was worried about doing him justice, but the second I put these two together it all just...happened. I get it. They are just SO good together. YOU ARE SO RIGHT. Here's 700+ words of Aeon being so sweet to Cowbell (AS HE DESERVES).

Aeon spent his first few months topside unsure of Cowbell. Watching the older ghoul from afar. Fascinated by his outright refusal to even pretend to be human. Movements too fast, too sudden. They’ve gotten to know each other slowly. Aeon slipping into his orbit when he can. Walking next to him on their way to the gardens. Sitting next to each other at Mass. 

Aeon gathers bits and pieces. Finds Cowbell strangely secretive. Speaking in a rasping whisper most of the time. But Aeon loves his stories. Stories of his time on the road. Of his small moments on stage. Of the pit. Aeon hangs on every gravely word as Cowbell recounts. 

Aeon finds him easier to talk to than some of the other ghouls. The band ghouls especially. He knows he’s one of them now but that still doesn’t feel right. They feel like they’re on a pedestal above everyone else whether they want to be or not, and Aeon doesn’t know how to climb up to stand next to them–he doesn’t know if he wants to. 

“You never take your mask off,” Aeon observes, one warm spring day. They’re sitting in the center of Primo’s hedge maze. The fountain in the middle of the clearing bubbling away. The air smelling like lilacs and fresh tilled dirt. Cowbell sighs, slides his  finger over the sharp jaw of his mask. 

He has an older one–there are quite a  few ghouls around who still wear them. Mist, Omega, most of the working ghouls who were summoned during that era. Aeon knows Dew has one–has seen it on his bookshelf. He suspects Dew puts his old uniform on sometimes in an attempt to disappear. 

“Not a pretty sight, kid,” Cowbell huffs out, dropping his hand to lean back on it. To tilt his head up toward the sun like he can feel it on his face through all that metal. 

“I showed you mine,” Aeon offers, pointing to his own maskless face, his damaged left eye and the scars surrounding it. Cowbell turns his head to look at him. Aeon can see his eyes narrowing behind the mask, thought, maybe. Or he’s about to tell Aeon he doesn’t know what he’s talking about–that he can’t possibly understand. 

Instead, Cowbell sits up, he sighs, and takes his mask in both hands, lifts it. He settles it down on the grass between his knees and takes his time before he looks over at Aeon. It gives Aeon time to study his profile. The wild dark hair. A jawline, sharp like the one on the mask. Crooked noise, pale gray skin. One thin horn curving back over his skull, deadly sharp at the point. The other broken off near the base, rough and jagged. 

When Cowbell turns, Aeon gasps. He’s gorgeous. Scarred yes, but most ghouls are somewhere. His face made of sharp angles, cut glass. Eyes, lined with dark make-up, looking almost owlish, one glittering violet, the other vibrant amber. 

Aeon can’t help but touch him. Can’t stop himself from reaching out and cupping that razor sharp jaw in his palm to see if it will hurt him. But instead, what he gets is Cowbell leaning into that touch. Eyes fluttering closed, breath heaving out in a sigh. 

Aeon isn’t stupid. He knows what privilege he’s been given. Knows that Cowbell doesn’t let anyone touch him like this, see him like this. That he has been given a gift that almost no one else here has–to really see this ghoul for who he is. 

Aeon inches closer. Caresses Cowbell’s scarred cheek. Holds him. Studies him. He may never get this chance again–he wants to remember this. To commit every angle, every line, every scar to memory so he never forgets. 

“So pretty,” Aeon mumbles and Cowbell scoffs. Eyes cracking open. 

“Liar.” 

Aeon shakes his head. “Shut up and let me look at you.” 

Cowbell does, eyes still slitted open, watching Aeon’s face intently. 

“Can I?” Aeon asks–doesn’t really know what he’s asking for until Cowbell nods and he does it.  Leaning in to press gentle lips over the scar that bisects a dark eyebrow. And then another over a silverly line cutting across the bridge of his noses. And then his lips are grazing over the scars on Cowbell’s cheek. 

The older ghoul chuckles. “What are you going to do, kiss them all?”

“Maybe.” Aeon mutters, lips dragging over Cowbell’s temple. 

“We’ll be here all day.” 

Aeon hums, unbothered not pulling away. Tasting salt and metal on Cowbell’s skin. “Good.” 

[sonics-atelier]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐧

Summary : Captain Lucien thinks it’s a brilliant idea to chase after a magical pendant with the help of a siren. What could possibly go wrong when you flirt with ancient dangers and ignore the crew’s survival instincts?

WC : 1269. Read On Ao3 or below the cut.

For 31 Days Of Tamcien, ran by @achaotichuman <3 - Prompt - Day 9 : Mermaid AU

. . .

The Firebird sailed steadily through the waters, its sleek hull cutting through the waves with a rhythm only the most skilled of crews could have achieved. At the helm, Captain Lucien, eyes narrowed against the wind, scanned the horizon. His thoughts were far from the duties of command. He was consumed by the whisper of something darker, something impossible, yet undeniably tantalizing. The sirens called to him—a song woven from the threads of dreams and desire.

Behind him, His First Mate Vassa’s sharp eyes narrowed as she approached, her footsteps light, yet laden with an undeniable sense of urgency. She stood a moment behind Lucien, watching the way his gaze fixed on the distant, dark horizon, where the sun dipped low in a haze of amber. Then, with a soft exhale, she spoke.

"Captain," she said, her voice taut with restrained concern. "This is madness. You’re going to get us all killed."

Lucien didn’t flinch at the sharpness of her tone, nor did he spare her a glance. He was used to her directness, her unyielding pragmatism. He’d heard her protests before, yet this time there was a note of finality in her words that caught his attention.

Jurian, standing nearby, crossed his arms, the lines of his strong face set in grim resolve. "Vassa's right, Lucien," he said, his gravelly voice betraying an uncommon sense of gravity. "I’ve followed you through countless battles, through storms that could drown the sun. But this... this is madness. You’re chasing shadows now. I’ve entertained many of your wild ideas, but this?" His voice faltered slightly, and he glanced toward the distant bay where Lucien’s obsession was pulling him. "This is too far even for me."

Lucien’s lips curled into a sardonic smile as he finally turned to face them. His mismatched eyes—one golden and the other a vivid, unsettling shade of amber—sparkled with defiance. "I don’t need either of you," he said, his words like a challenge, his tone thick with the kind of certainty that often preceded reckless decisions. "I can do it alone. All you need to do is bring the Firebird to the bay, and I’ll take it from there."

Vassa’s mouth set into a thin, unamused line, while Jurian’s brow furrowed in displeasure. It was not the first time Lucien had been insistent on some foolhardy course, and neither of them doubted for a moment that once Lucien had made up his mind, nothing would change it.

"You’re impossible," Vassa muttered, her eyes darkening with resolve. "But fine. We’ll bring the ship to the bay. But if you get yourself killed by those blasted sirens, don’t expect me to retrieve your body. Understand?"

Lucien laughed softly, the sound dark and knowing. "You won’t have to. If I die, I’ll be gone from this world, and I’ll leave you all to fend for yourselves." His smile was a razor’s edge, sharp and almost mocking. "But don’t worry, Vassa. You’re never going to have to worry about me dying."

Jurian exchanged a glance with Vassa, a silent understanding passing between them. There was no point in arguing further. Once Lucien set his course, there was only one thing left to do: follow.

As the Firebird neared the bay the next day, Lucien found himself drawn, inexplicably, into a strange trance. His body seemed distant, as though it were merely a vessel moving through the motions. The past few nights, he had heard it—a melody—tugging at his soul, calling him deeper into the dark waters where few dared to tread. It was a song that haunted him, echoing in his dreams, a song that pulled him toward the jagged rocks and frothing sea below.

He stood at the edge of the ship, staring out at the bay, his breath shallow. The melody wove through the air, rising like a mist, and he could not resist it. He knew, as if through some ancient instinct, that the pendant he sought—an artifact capable of granting the deepest of wishes—was buried beneath the waves, hidden in the dark recesses of a cave that beckoned to him.

The map he had stolen from the Federation, with its cryptic markings and foreign ink, had led him here. Now, all that remained was to claim his prize.

With a swift motion, Lucien descended the gangplank, the cool saltwater splashing against his boots. He walked purposefully toward the cave entrance, a yawning maw in the rocky shore, where the air was thick with the scent of brine and something more—a strange, intoxicating pull.

The moment he stepped inside, the world darkened, but the glow of bioluminescent algae lit the path ahead. He moved deeper into the cave, the silence pressing in around him like a tangible thing. And then he saw it—a glimmer in the water.

The pendant lay near a stone formation, an eerie glow surrounding it, almost as if it were alive. But Lucien was not alone. His heart quickened as he caught the flash of movement in the water, something large and shimmering, moving just beyond his reach. The song grew louder, more insistent, winding through his thoughts until they were nothing but a blur of sensation and need.

Without hesitation, Lucien shed his outer garments, his chest bare to the chill of the cave air, and waded into the water. The cold sank into his skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire that burned within him. As he swam toward the pendant, he saw the source of the haunting melody—an otherworldly figure, half-submerged, its golden hair flowing like liquid sunlight.

The creature's body was an impossibility: a shimmering emerald tail, long and graceful, curled in the depths of the cave. Its gills fluttered at the sides of its neck, its fingers sharp and clawed, like something born of the deepest parts of the ocean. It was a siren—a being of beauty and danger, whose very existence was a temptation no mortal could resist.

Lucien felt himself drawn forward, his body moving against his will, his heart thrumming with desire. The siren's glowing green eyes locked with his, and Lucien could feel the spell deepening. As his fingers grazed the chain around the siren’s neck, the creature caressed his face, its touch cool and smooth, sending waves of euphoria through him.

The siren’s lips brushed against his own in a kiss that was both sweet and savage. The taste of salt and something otherworldly filled Lucien’s senses, and for a moment, the world outside of this moment ceased to exist. He was lost in the kiss, in the overwhelming sensation, in the pull of the song that wrapped around his soul like a chain.

When they broke apart, the siren’s eyes gleamed with knowing. It handed him the pendant, its words flowing softly through the water, a sentence laden with ominous promise.

"You have what you seek," the siren’s voice whispered, "but the price of your wish is never as simple as you think."

With that, the siren vanished into the depths, leaving Lucien to float in the water, the pendant heavy in his hand. A strange shiver ran through him as he clutched it. The song faded, but the pull of the siren’s gaze remained, lingering like a shadow, a promise of something both beautiful and terrifying.

Lucien surfaced, gasping for air, the pendant clutched tightly in his fingers. As he made his way back to the shore, the weight of the siren’s words settled over him, and a new awareness flickered in the depths of his mind.

He had what he wanted.

But at what cost?

. . .

- @sonics-atelier 2024 ( do not repost or reuse in any way, shape or form )

[yuesya]

Man I feel like same age Shiki would absolutely go ballistic if she showed up to check on Satoru and just, saw him die, right there.

Would his red lines disappear briefly?

Shiki would arrive in a mood, because she hates it when the elders play their games, and because Satoru is annoying even on a good day. She arrives internally grumbling about what a pain it's going to be, bringing Satoru back with her-

Blood.

There's blood splattered all over the ground, a veritable lake of blood. And in the middle of it all-

White hair. Wide, glassy blue eyes that stare out and see nothing, when they were supposed to see everything. There's a jagged gash splitting down the middle of the body, and a bleeding hole in the head.

It's far from the most disturbing scene that Shiki has seen, in her years as an active sorcerer. But at the same time, there's something about it that chills her to the core, the sight of this blood staining the stone steps of the ground.

Satoru's blood.

"Ha?" The tall, muscular man standing over the warm corpse of her dead cousin glances up in her direction. "... Oh, it's you. You're the inferior copy, aren't you? Are you sure you want to pick a fight with me?"

For emphasis, he carelessly kicks at Satoru's broken body. The corpse rolls listlessly, startling a few of the circling flyhead curses, before they return to circling him like vultures to carrion.

Shiki smiles.

Razor-sharp, a wild expression that's more a baring of her teeth than anything else. Her eyes lock on unblinkingly to the amused Sorcerer Killer, focusing on those red lines gleaming on his body, to the point where everything else in the world is blotted out around her.

"Die."

[inkykeiji]

hii!! if it’s still available, 12- (faulty) with 1950s keigo !!

prompt: faulty series: 1950s au warnings: just angst rly, but fluffy angst ehehe words: 366

Sometimes he fears there’s something faulty with him; something loose, something missing, something broken—something that isn’t exactly right. 

It’s a black smudge of tarnish on his golden soul, a dark cloud that blots out and swallows down his eternal warmth in the dead of night, when the wind is still and the house stops creaking and everything is stiff, stifling, silent. 

That’s normally when they begin to leak out, sharp fragments of insecurity, jagged shards of past lives, slicing his tongue to bits as they pry past his lips, desperate to make themselves known, heard, real.  

To you. 

It’s a compulsion, almost—an uncontrollable need to tell you, to let you in, to let you see all of him, every single part, even the splintered slivers that might cut your soft flesh if you wander a little too close. 

They’re pieces of him he’s never shown to anyone before, never allowed anyone to hold in their palms or turn over in their fingers for fear that they may fall into the wrong hands, terrified that they may be fashioned into something pointed and dangerous, a weapon made of himself.

To wound himself. 

In his line of work, one can never be too sure.

And even though they hurt to release, words razored as they tear up his throat, leaving it raw and burning, they feel good to let go of, too, even if only for a little while. 

They burrow themselves back within him eventually, as always, before the sun creeps over the horizon and dispels the protective veil of night. They must return to their rightful places, edges just barely dulled by your love, because as piercing and painful as they are, they’re still a part of him, too; a part of his history, a part of his life’s mosaic, bloodied and broken but his nonetheless.  

There is something faulty within him, but he doesn’t want you to fix it, or replace it, or mend it at all. He only wants you to hold it sometimes, to soothe it with your gentle voice and place it back in its proper spot with your tender hands, to accept it as it is, malfunctioning and all. 

[lancely-blog]

Destiny’s Twin—A Multidimensional Fantasy [Excerpt]

All text copyrighted ©️ 2007 by Lancer Gareth Bailey

The Medhoum

In the treacherous heights of the great mountain of Kragdnom, thousands of feet above the barren wasteland below, beyond the reach of most ground dwelling creatures, deep within the blackened depths of an immense chasm—a gash of razor-sharp rocks—perched the giant fortress Kragonhold. The castle sat precariously on the edge of the cliff, backed by the soaring peaks of the mountain itself. Black and gray, the seemingly colorless walls of rock soared to heights unseen, disappearing into the darker fog of clouds that clung to the rugged, ice-capped summits. It was a forbidding place, one not easily accessible.

There were no roads to Kragonhold. No horse trails led to the gates of this behemoth. No carriages visited this malignant domain. No travelers dared pass this way. It was a place of great dread and disquietude. It was a foreboding place built for utter intimidation.

Built over a thousand years ago by a powerful evil no one dared whisper about in stories, this was a desolate place. Deprived of warmth, beauty, light, and life; it was a place people tried very hard to forget. Legend tells that the keep of Kragonhold was constructed in a dark time, a time before history could say for sure, by a wizard of great evil: Lucius.

It was said that Lucius, unrivaled in power and intellect in his time, possessed the ability of levitation, among many other dark talents. The only way to reach the massive, sharp, black iron gates of Kragonhold was to make an extremely treacherous, seemingly vertical climb up a twisted and slick stairway carved from the black rocks of Mt. Kragdnom itself. The stairway led to a small landing thousands of feet in the air, overlooking a giant gash in the earth—a crack in the mountain that virtually split it in two. From this precipitous landing, no bridge, tunnel, or stair would lead around the crag. From this point, there was no way forward. It was a dead end—unless you could fly.

The legend also tells that some thousand years ago, there existed one single wooden elevator. Crafted from logs and hemp, it stretched from the belly of a small crank house at the top of the towering ridge, delving deep down into the giant chasm. This elevator led to a secret road known and traveled only by the twisted minions of Lucius himself, who brought him supplies and objects imbued with great power, which he coveted. It was said that this secret roadway was guarded by evil spirits, demons, and fearsome monsters conjured from the darkest of dreams, underworld forces bent on murder and utter destruction. Spellforms and traps lined the path—if triggered, they would send an avalanche of massive boulders pummeling down the cliff face with fatal force. Nobody who had ever attempted to find such a path or elevator had ever returned.

Thus, no human or creature of the earth had entered the giant keep for a millennium, except, it is rumored, an old crone—a witch, a servant of the dark times, a servant of the dark ways of magic, a servant of Lucius. Of course, nobody knows for sure if the legends are true, for nobody dares to prove them, or even think on them for any length of time, for fear they would attract the attention—and therefore the wrath—of the black witch of Kragonhold and perhaps even the vengeful spirit of the long-dead evil wizard, Lucius.

The only creatures still existing with the ability to reach such treacherous heights as Kragonhold were the fairies; however, no fairy could survive the deathly cold and torrential winds of those peaks. The temperature at those lofty altitudes could plunge well below freezing for months at a time, and the wind was so forceful it could easily send a fairy smashing with deadly force into one of the many walls or jagged outcroppings of rock at any moment. To make matters worse, the wind hurled shards of razor-sharp ice like a maelstrom, making any attempt at flight near impossible.

The lightning storms around those massive peaks were said to be death itself. They seemed a force of malicious and sentient power, bloodthirsty and death-hungry, striking down anything possessing life within miles of the impenetrable fortress. The place was cursed. It was a place of death, a black maw on the face of the surrounding world.

The witch, Ekwamedhua, is said to have lived in the castle of Kragonhold for nearly three hundred years, never seen outside the confines of those massive, forbidding walls, and possessing dangerous and lethal powers. Lore says that Ekwamedhua possesses powers of shape-shifting and has been known to transform herself into a giant black dragon. On the new moon, she would swoop down from her lofty nest to capture young maidens, using them in rituals rumored to be the cause of her unnaturally long life.

Ekwamedhua, it is said, was a pupil of the dark wizard Lucius. Created by Lucius, Ekwamedhua was spawned from the blackest of magics, a daughter of Lucius and his queen, Maghya. According to legend, Lucius's wife Maghya was a goddess, her name meaning "powerful one," and indeed she was. Queen Maghya was a woman of unfathomable beauty and power, but she was not evil. Maghya possessed great powers of both white and black magic, and Lucius knew that if he could ever break her bonds of benevolence and goodness, together they would be an unstoppable and utterly devastating force.

Lucius devised a plan to resolve this problem, for he loved Maghya desperately, but he could not tolerate her empathy and unrestrained goodness. He saw it as a terrible and disgusting weakness, a disease he must stomp out, rip out of her no matter the cost. So, he drugged his wife one night and tied her limp body to a great stone altar, carved with ancient runes said to be names of terrible underworld demons. With a sacrifice of infant blood, he summoned great forces of evil magic, creating a great mystical sword, Krentos, and cleaved Maghya in twain.

With one forceful swing, he divided Maghya's existence—her mind, her memories, and her magics—into two equal and opposite offspring. These two children were thus spawned, born into the world possessing the halves of their mother, Maghya.

Lucius, knowing that one of these children would contain all the dark powers he sought and cherished, and the other would contain all the white powers of creation and goodness which he loathed, separated the two children. One child he claimed, Ekwamedhua, holding close to his bosom, investing it with all his malice and hate. The other, not being able to kill the child, as it was a part of his beloved Maghya, he sent away from his sight, locking it in a dungeon deep in the belly of the mountain Kragdnom. This solution did not satisfy him for long, however. He knew he could not bring himself to kill the child, for fear of forever losing part of his queen, Maghya, and thus her love, but he also knew that as long the child remained alive, it would forever haunt him. He knew that as the child aged, it would grow stronger, and more powerful, and with its hate of him and its vengeance for his mistreatment, it would one day come to destroy him. So on the day of the first cycle of a year in the child's life, he concocted a sacred potion, a drink, the Medhuom, which took eight months thereafter to ferment into full potency. During this time, as the story tells, he held eight separate festivals, each celebrating a particular alignment of the stars in accordance with his most worshiped constellation structure, Artus, which is the name of the structure that lies behind the universe. Once the sacred drink was prepared, he made preparations for the ritual of banishment. This process required that a massive, ten-foot stone petroglyph be carved into a perfect circle and placed within an altar of the child's blood, black and yellow candles, and rare blue and white crystals. Onto this petroglyph would be drawn an image, a random setting of the mind's design, in white chalk. The child was then placed inside the altar, inside the ring of lit candles and shimmering crystals, and fed the thick, pungent liquid from a wooden chalice. After this was accomplished, Lucius began to chant softly. As the speed and volume of the chant increased, the blue and white crystals began to sparkle and radiate a soft glow. Lucius, ever-increasing the volume and fanaticism of his chanting, threw his arms into the air dramatically, pointing directly at the constellation structure, Artus. Suddenly, a gale blew through the altar room and blew out all the candles as a lightning bolt struck the stone tablet, blinding Lucius who stood mere feet away. The only light left was emanating from the now brightly gleaming crystals, and the soft flickering glow emanating from the lines of chalk on the stone tablet. Lucius wiped his eyes, trying to adjust his vision to no avail, and kneeled down at the altar. With broad sweeping motions of his arms, he felt for the body of the child lying there in a pool of blood. Creeping up onto the platform of the altar, Lucius searched with his hands. He felt the stinging heat of the candle wax and the jagged edges of the surrounding crystals, but no baby was lying among them. The child of legend was gone. From that fateful day the dark enchanter Lucius lived for many more years, teaching the heir to his wicked empire, Ekwamedhua, everything he knew about the forces of black magic, wizardry, necromancy, alchemy, and conjuration. Blinded by that singular event, he was never again able to leave his lofty fortress, instead tutoring his young protege and investing her with abilities not unlike his own. Though she grew more powerful every day, Lucius knew that she would never become the woman he dreamed she would be, his beloved wife Maghya, for she was only half of her mother and possessed only half of the potential of her predecessor.

After a time, Lucius grew to hate Ekwamedhua for her shortcomings and began to mistrust her. He knew that the more he taught her, and the more of his own powers that he invested in her, the weaker he became. He feared that one day she would revolt against him and seize her place as his successor, so he ceased to tutor her in the ways of magic and spellcasting. Instead, he banished her from his libraries and forbade her to practice the craft in any form within the confines of his castle. Ekwamedhua continued to study in secret, however. Confined to the lower quarters of the castle, she was not allowed anywhere near her father's libraries, so she began dispatching servants to smuggle her father's texts down to her. Many of her servants were also elemental students of witchcraft and sorcery, so, committing treason against their lord Lucius, they assisted her with her studies, helping her to translate the cryptic texts and spell forms, tutoring her in the history and applications of several forms of magic as well as the techniques of many notorious witches, such as the great Cerridwen. Cerridwen was a master of the great arts of regeneration and transformation. She had possessed a mythical cauldron, named Ceres which was said to have a ring of pearls around the rim and was kindled by the breath of nine maidens. Cerridwen's cauldron was also said to excrete a poisonous residue which was alleged to enhance the collective consciousness and bestow the gift of prophecy. It was then, with this knowledge, in secret, that Ekwamedhua commissioned to have a great cauldron built, investing it with powers of black magic and forces of the underworld, and named Annwyn. As the story goes, with time, all her vast new knowledge, and armed with a new weapon, a cauldron of immense power, Ekwamedhua's dark talent grew immeasurably. She soon began to notice that some of her father's most secret of texts were going missing, vanishing, so her increasingly unfaithful servants would profess. She began to suspect that her father, ever fearful of her improving ability, was having them systematically destroyed in order to protect his secrets.

One evening, in a rage, Ekwamedhua gathered together ingredients in a brew and drank it down. It was a fiery concoction that forced her to gag and thrash violently, clawing at her throat and screaming in unbridled agony. As she writhed on the floor, panting and dripping blood from her neck and broken fingernails, she began to breathe heavily. With each heaving breath, her arms and legs grew thicker and stronger than they were. Her flesh tightened around her muscles like leather on a drum until she felt like it might rip right off her and leave her bones, muscles, and tendons stripped and pulsating with intense fury. Unable to stand for fear she might rip her body into threads, she lay there convulsing. Her breath became as hot and noxious as the vent of an active volcano. Her eyes dilated, and a thin film developed over her retinas. The taut skin over her shoulder blades suddenly ripped open spraying blood across the floor. Giant black appendages burst out of the torn gashes in her wet back. She screamed in utter terror as the room fell to blackness. As she reawakened there came a ravenous hunger. A hunger for flesh. A thirst for blood. With a mighty thrust, she leaped into the air and smashed into the grey stone outer wall of her cell and into the blackness of night, leaving a giant heap of dust and rubble billowing and crashing down around her cauldron. Instictively she spread her arms, and the great webbed appendages on her back exploded outward arresting her fall and sending her soaring out into the night. Hunger. Intense hunger. She knew what she was hungry for. She swooped into the air, giving her new wings a mighty thrust, accelerating and climbing simultaneously. She reached the turrets of the highest tower of Kragonhold and circled it, peering down at it greedily. With a grin, bearing massive, razor-sharp teeth, bringing her front arms around and flashing her fearsome talons, she dove for the tower, ripping the roof off with one fierce slash of her right claw, ripping it to kindling. There, just inside, below a shallow pile of rubble, on a massive bed lay her sleeping father. Whipping her neck around like a striking serpent, she seized the sleeping wizard in her yellow jaws and clamped them down, grinding, squeezing his bones to a pulp, and squirting his innards across the bottom of her jaw. The taste of fresh, warm blood flowed down her throat and made her tongue quiver with ecstasy. With one mighty gulp, she swallowed the pulverized body down and licked her lips. The taste of blood was riveting. The taste of vengeance--sweet. The legend was born on this day. She had just ascended to her rightful place as the supreme power, the supreme ruler of Kragonhold. She had just earned her throne. She had just eaten her first meal as a dragon.

And so, the tale of Ekwamedhua and the destruction of Lucius ends and not much else is known of those dark times or those dark magics. It is said that many of her servants, teachers, and fellow students of the craft fled from the castle of Kragonhold fearful of their lives and their souls. It is speculated that perhaps as they fled, they brought with them many of the secrets of Lucius, the ability to wield dark magic, the ability to conjure spirits from the underworld, and perhaps even what would become the most important secret of all, the lost recipe for the sacred drink, the gateway to other worlds, the key to the universe, the Medhuom.

[cactuskat]

I have more!!

I wanted to present my idea for The Cheated, basically:

Knife Turkey!

I'm thinking that for this to branch there would be a route where The Hero kills you, but you are able to play dead, he comes in to check the body, allowing you the chance to stab him with your knife.

When you walk down the jagged stairs, you hear his voice full of oh so many sharp inflections, it's manic and excitable and more than anything he squawks at you. Finally reaching the base, you see him standing there, shining feathers ruffled, poking out at odd angles and forming strange fixtures along his form, a grand array of feathers displays proud behind him, as if trying to make himself seem bigger than he is. His arms are hidden behind his back, but he's fighting, itching to do- something, eyes darting about the room. It's as if he's barely keeping it all together. He compels you to come closer, that everything is fine, that he has not a clue what's going on.

He's playing the long game... poorly.

When you finally get close enough though, or perhaps once he's tired of waiting, his arm rips open, revealing (instead of a blade) a massive talon (like you would expect in a raptor, except this one shines with pristine steel) "Didn't see that one coming!! Huh?!" he'd ask, giddily (something along those lines), and then you fight, until he inevitably tears you apart.

In the third chapter, his feathers only become more obviously steel, more jagged, more dangerous, and he is just all too excited to tear you apart again. It's his little over compensation for the first time he got duped. (This design is more along lines with the image above)

Also, I feel it important to add, The Look, is very much a thing the princess' voices suggest as well, and The Cheated is also into it. It would be a crime not to include that part.

Of course, eventually you die, and go on to the fourth chapter, and see him contort and explode into his final form:

Have you ever seen those Christmas trees made of antlers? That's basically what he is, except with steel talons and bits of iron plumage to fill in the gaps.

At this point he's taking full enjoyment, and though his dialogue is still interspersed with little "How do you like that?" "Not so fun being on the otherside huh???" he's mostly just taking joy from the violence of the act, it's overkill, it's righteousness twisted into vindictiveness.

Meanwhile you have The Voice of The Razor in our Princess' head, just being a lil' silly. She's gleeful and maybe enjoying things a bit too much, suggested you to hide the knife repeatedly (whether or not it would be an option), and wonders if you can do that "hide a weapon in your limbs thing" Additionally, she does teleport you to The Hero's residence, explaining she just wants to jump into things.

slay the princess au where the Princess and the Hero switch places. I've been imagining all the voices as chapter characters also blended with those versions of the Princess. So far I've decided his "Damsel" route would be called "the Knight" and he tries to rescue you and sweep you off your feet but he is also still chained up in the basement and he looks silly doing it. the voice of the Damsel is still charmed by the display

[insult-2-injury]

The First Unkindness - Chapter 1

Time Travel Fem Reader x Zandik (set in Akademiya days)

With a strike intended to kill, Il Dottore sends you flying back through time, where you find yourself face to face with the first, but no less sinister version of himself.

AO3 Link, 3k wc, eventual smut, eventual romance, slow burn, enemies to lovers

Chapter 1

You suppose you should’ve known something was off when the chatty shopkeep stopped talking for even a split second. When the unstoppered commotion of the Sumeru marketplace plummeted before suddenly picking up again, like a radio dial spun quickly back and forth; tuning in.

But it was just a glitch in time, you’d thought, hopeful. One of those funny little moments when reality and memory collide. Deja vu, they called it, so strong it rocked you sideways. Yes, just that; you thought until seconds later, the shopkeep dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, and complete silence suffused the din.

You froze, one arm still outstretched, an apple clutched in your palm so shiny you thought perhaps if you squinted hard enough, you could see the approach of your own reckoning from behind.

Fear was a strange thing; had you numbly taking the time to bag the rest of your purchases before turning stiffly. The warm glow of lanterns bathing cobblestone that had seemed so friendly in the bustle seemed now to cast an eerie spotlight on the figures. Dozens of prone forms littered the ground, some of them bent at odd angles, their full weight having crashed down suddenly and without warning.

An unnaturally cold gust of air bit into your cheeks.

Well, you thought, you suppose you should’ve known better; staying in Sumeru any longer than you ought. You recalled when you’d moved here from your tiny little village just outside Gandharva Ville; when the hope of a bright future at Akademiya had eclipsed the sight of the rot beneath it all. This place was a utopia once. Not anymore.

You were headed somewhere where there were no monsters beneath the floorboards, where the worst creature that could lunge from the shadows was a Rishboland tiger.

But the current foe did not lunge, he crept toward you with an undue ease.

The Fatui harbinger tucked a device neatly into his jacket pocket, walking with the slimy confidence of someone who had laid his groundwork precisely and was here to reap his reward. 

Il Dottore. The Doctor. You never had seen him in person. And Archons, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of him, every inch of his countenance built to scream of power. An intricately patterned gray overcoat over a cobalt shirt crowned with a gold-lined cravat. Black pants slimming down into opulent, intimidating boots of the same colors. Everything about him was jagged and deadly; from the knife-edged slant of his jaw drawing into a pointed chin to the sharp, hawk-like beak of his mask – something that did little to hide the ghost of smirking lips beneath. An unruly head of steel blue hair sprouted and fell in almost lazy curls to frame his face.

Following him were two Fatui soldiers.

“So you managed to retain consciousness. Bravo.” 

Your blood ran cold at the timbre of his voice, smooth and rumbling as a far-off storm. “Although I do find myself wondering how that is…”

He continued. “The pitch produced by this device is wholly indiscernible to the human ear. Oh, let’s call it something tantamount to an amplified dog whistle. ” Dottore spoke derisively, like he was trying to explain the concept of sound to a simpleminded commoner. Your heart started up a terrible rhythm as his voice lowered in mock seriousness. “It would require a great deal of mental endeavor for even one with the gaze of the gods to withstand such a blow to their Akasha, but, unless I’m mistaken, you’ve been gifted with no such vision.”

“You’re not mistaken,” you confirmed. “Will they die?” 

“Who?” 

Your eye twitched.

“Ah. All these delightful people, you mean.” You swore you saw a flash of razor sharp teeth. “Why, they are merely asleep.”

Archons, he was a villain in the truest sense of the word. You gnawed the inside of your cheek, a profound hatred melding with anxiety to create a nauseating brew in the pit of your stomach.

“Well, what do you want?” 

He hummed almost appreciatively. “So forward, I’d almost admire your brashness if it weren’t coupled with a shocking lack of observance. A little forethought and you could have been miles away by now. Imagine.” The corner of his lips creased wickedly.

“Imagine,” you retorted with a boldness you didn’t feel, fingers ticking on the apple in your palm.

“Tell me, driyosh, what did inspire you to rewire your terminal?” His voice was too light, too inviting. “Moreso, what could have possibly motivated you to flee the city at such a time?”

Dottore was toying with you like a cat would a mouse. You were nothing but a ball of yarn between his sharp claws as he batted you around for information he most certainly already had. And by the smirk on his face, he knew you knew that there was nothing to do but buy time.

You spoke carefully.

“To be honest, I don’t find my values… aligning with the Akademiya anymore.”

“Your values? Hm.” His dark, rolling chuckle accused you of more than any words could. You felt a tingling heat creep to your cheeks and you swallowed down a wave of humiliation. “We’re fast approaching a new era of enlightenment; I do think most would call your judgment into question.”

��Yeah, well…” You bit out, tilting your head toward the sea of unconscious forms. “Seems not everybody’s in their right minds these days.”

Dottore smirked. Your hand itched to grab the gun hidden at your side, but doing so would be a certified death sentence. A shot of electro, devastating to most, wouldn’t hold water to whatever sort of power he must hold to have been crowned a Fatui harbinger. 

You knew when it came down to it, the power imbalance was all too inequitable. He didn’t seem the type to expend time and energy going after the insignificant himself, though; which meant to some degree, however miniscule, you posed a threat. But how to appease a Fatui harbinger on a mission? Perhaps you just had to keep him talking. Easy enough, you thought, he seemed to very much enjoy the sound of his own voice.

“Besides, propaganda is a powerful tool,” you stalled, toying with the apple within your sweating palms. “And is it so bad to want to dream, anyway? I’m not the first to mess with my terminal and I likely won’t be the last. Does all this really warrant arrest now?” 

Do the matra have nothing better to do than to send a Fatui harbinger to do their grunt work? No, you knew better than to think this had anything to do with your tampering with your terminal. This was only the first rap of his knuckles against your proverbial egg shell.

“Oh? Are you so important to warrant an arrest?” he responded simply, head cocking.

A shock of fear, cold and electric crept your spine at the implication. You blinked. You hadn’t considered the possibility of your life ending right here where you stood. He’d brought a hydro and a cryogunner, which you thought had spoken of intent to capture, but the two of them stood almost completely useless behind him, and who were you to guess the motive of a madman? 

You couldn’t help the stomach-sinking feeling that he’d only brought them to confuse; to tease. Your gaze turned back to the sharp void of his mask. Steeling yourself, you took a breath.

“Why don’t you wear your Akasha, then, Doctor?” you asked and his chin lowered slightly at the use of his epithet. You relaxed your shoulders as much as you could. “Don’t you want access to the arcane wisdom of our new god? Don’t you dream, then? And is dreaming not the personification of irrational thought, of unintelligence? ” His lips were all you could see, but the small grin at your sardonic tone was almost playful as you mimicked the words of the Akademiya’s most recent decree. You swallowed down a ball of nerves, a flicker of hope alight in your chest at his seemingly genuine amusement, however feline. “People become so dredged up in it all, they don’t stop to think where their dreams are going – or just who is listening to them.”

“Oh, they do think,” he responded simply, “but like you said, propaganda is a powerful tool.”

Dottore raised a gloved hand to signal his soldiers to stay put and stepped toward you alone, hands falling behind his back, terrifyingly casual. Your lower back met the rickety wooden cart behind you with a thud as you jarred away from his slow approach. His lips curled slightly but he surprisingly did not push further, halting at a conversational distance.

“You do pose a fair question, I suppose. But alas, what is the worth of a dream to the sleepless? Perhaps there is a tormented segment of myself who does still dream,” he said indifferently, “I just don’t care enough to ask. In any case, I am not one of them.”

You frowned. Segments? 

“And I will go ahead and infer from the spirit of this conversation that you don’t approve of my scientific methods here in Sumeru. I’ll be the first to call into question the Akademiya’s more… rigid history.” His voice dropped, the words formed around a sharp smile, like he was letting you in on a private joke. “But when the old ways have been set in stone, when the rot of a bygone era travels deep, the creation that rises from the floorboards must serve as a symbol of power. Of wisdom.”  

The word sounded so ridiculously insincere you could have laughed. 

“You don’t really mean that,” you dared.

Dottore studied you but did not respond to your doubt, one corner of his lips curling slowly into a sinister grin, filling you with a sudden, heart-pounding anticipation.

“And what of your involvement, driyosh?” he said lowly.

You licked your lips, a fresh wave of panic slithering through your veins. “I felt just a tad… just a tad deceived, I guess.” 

“Do elaborate.”

You observed him.

The work had started out light; unassuming. Everyday tasks handed down to you from the Grand Sage: tedious things like hunting down borderline ancient research papers or transferring messages across Akademiya grounds – frustrating, admittedly, for a gunslinging driyosh with a thesis paper to write. But further requests had you descending into madness; Azar’s requests for you to sketch out blueprints for a bigger and better weapon. One that could harvest latent elements from the world around it, transfer it into a clean source of elemental energy. 

But for what? And why? For who? The questions were endless and the potential for misuse even more so, but… you were interested in the work. Couldn’t help yourself. And to be seemingly taken both under the wing and into the good graces of the Grand Sage was no common feat. So you continued.

That is…  until the rumor came of the awakening god beneath the floorboards. Of the sighting of a Fatui harbinger. Oh, it must’ve felt such vacuous gossip to those who’d followed Akademiya’s orders and left their terminals on permanently. But to those like yourself, who had caught on a hair too late to the Akademiya’s betrayal, the knowledge latched on with a terrible sense of trepidation. Something was coming. Something bad.

And you’d been able to do nothing but slow its progression.

You cleared your throat and continued. “Me thinking I was anything but a puppet to the Akademiya. Thinking the Grand Sage chose me for my talent over simple convenience.” You shrugged through the rush of anger that stung your cheeks, pulling your lips into a small frown. “I should never have gotten involved.”

“Oh, don’t pity yourself so,” he said, disapproval coloring his tone. “After all, you’ve made quite a name for yourself, haven’t you. Star pupil of Spantamad; remarkable aptitude in biomechanical weaponry.” You narrowed your eyes, his praise unexpected and holding a wormy, underhanded cut of ridicule. “The gods deprived you of your own vessel of release, so you created your own.” 

He nodded subtly to the hidden guns holstered at your side and you tensed. “An elemental destabilizer. Not the first of its kind, no, but mildly impressive for one so young as you. You did grab my attention for a short while, I will say– so impulsive to throw yourself into a project with so few questions; so little understanding of the desired outcome. No, you just wanted to be of use. And you were, weren’t you? Yes, for every blind inch Azar granted you, you took a mile. To that end, I do applaud you.”

Your cheeks blazed at his disparagement, feeling like a tiny ant amidst the cobblestones under his derisive gaze. You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised it was the Doctor that had chosen you by hand, considering what you’d recently come to learn of his proclivities.

“It is a shame you never saw the potential in scaling up your craft,” he said, “but you did have your uses.”

“Thank you,” you bit out.

Dottore hummed. “...Anyhow.” His gloved fingers tapped against his biceps in thought. “I do grow tired of inconsequential chatter. It’s about time we get to the point.” He took a step forward and with a lazy flourish of his wrist, two massive needles materialized out of thin air, floating idly on either side of his head. You choked on a gasp and pressed backward.

You stared in wide-eyed horror.

“You started asking questions, driyosh,” he said simply.

"N-no." There was no getting out. There was no capture. His intent was abundantly clear. "P lease.”  Your voice was small and crackling and even in all your terror, you found yourself despising how weak you sounded begging.

Your hand flexed toward your thigh. Your heart plunged in your chest before shooting to your throat like a fist punching upward. Dottore matched every panicked step of yours backward with an easy one of his own and you blanched as the needles caught the  light of a nearby streetlamp. 

Someone wake up. Someone wake up and stop him. Stop him.

“Stop! Stop. Let me explain–”

“As a scholar, first and foremost, I did admire your tenacity, your determination to uncover the truth… but thwarting plans, dredging up information that didn’t belong to you. And now leaving. ” He tsked in mock offense. “Such potential wasted.”

The world tilted. Breath became scarce.

Funny, a little. How the brain slowed to such mire when faced with its own reckoning. You’d always assumed it would work the opposite; blood thrumming with that kind of hopeless adrenaline that had mothers lifting carts off their children. And it certainly did, for a moment in time.

But then…no. It slowed. Like a fuse that had burned too hot and too quick; a half-crazed fear easing between the breadth of a single step into a strange, cold rationality. Two pairs of boots clicked on cobblestone as he backed you across cobblestone. Your eyes caught on the eerie red gleam reflecting off the front of his mask from something behind you.

“Dottore–”

“I really am sorry things had to end like this,” he continued, “but everyone must pay the price for what they learn. Although, it is a poor turn of luck for you that he sent me, I must say. I rather think another segment would’ve found you charming enough to keep around for a day or two.” 

You were never going to make it out and if you did, the things he had in store for you were far more unpleasant than death. Fuck him. Fuck this project. And fuck this city.

Your hand reached to wrap the handle of your gun and you watched as his lips twitched down in disapproval, as if he were disappointed you’d fallen back on such base methods.

"To a new era-" 

You managed to get a single shot off before  a needle slammed through your shoulder, blood a soft spatter on the ground behind as your arm ripped. And for a moment, as you stumbled backward, all you could do was stare at him, eyes wide in shock before an impossible pain had your knees collapsing beneath you.

“You said earlier you weren’t content being a puppet," he snarled between his teeth, "I wanted to properly test that theory.” With a cold twitch of his head, the second needle crashed into your other shoulder, launching your limp body backward. Your back hit hard stone and you couldn’t tell which of them cracked upon impact. Ah, an ancient waypoint, that's what you'd hit, your mind peculiarly filled in the blanks as a strange cerulean flash of light enveloped you upon the devastating collision.

So this was dying; bright colors and sounds all amalgamating into a blur of unfiltered agony. Thoughts flashing before you of not what you could’ve done with your life, but what you could’ve done with his if you’d just pulled your gun out fast enough. You would've killed him. You wanted to kill him.

Blood rushed in your ears, your pulse pounded in your neck and you could feel it all, your world filtering and narrowing into its simplest form. Vines like arms stretched from the ground to wrap you in their viselike grip, pulling you down, down, down.

To a new era of enlightenment, you thought, before it all went dark.

<3

Hey pals, thanks for reading! I hope you like what I have in store - lots of spice but hold the nice. I'd love to hear what you thought of the first chapter. Stay weird. ~ Sulty

[paperanddice]

It may look like ice, but these monsters are actually growing thick spikes of rock crystal. Jagged edges as sharp as a metal blade line these crystals, functioning both as defensive armor and offensive weapons as needed. The crystals regrow quickly, letting the troll shed damaged sections of armor and replace them within minutes, or grow out the spikes along its arms and shoulders, which it can then snap off to use as deadly thrown weapons. Their massive clubs take much longer to grow, generally taking several days to direct and shape the growth of their crystals into a replacement if their weapon is lost. These clubs are nearly impossible for others to use however, due to their great size and the razor sharp edges along even the haft of it. Most people who try will find their gloves and hands ripped to pieces in just a few swings, and no one, not even master dwarven masons, has been able to successfully polish or grind down these edges. Attempts to do so always just find more sharp points below the ones removed, until the handle is worn down too thin to support the heavy head, while still being too sharp to wield as a weapon.

A shard troll generally only stands about 8 feet tall, short for the trolls it is named after, but they are far bulkier and have a physique similar to that of a dwarf. Outside of Dreamblade they are most likely actually an elemental, particularly tied to elemental earth. They could be a natural creature fused with seeds of elemental earth that grow its crystals, or could be full natives of the elemental plane of earth. Originally from the Dreamblade base set. This post came out a week ago on my Patreon. If you want to get access to all my monster conversions early, as well as access to my premade adventures and other material I’m working on, consider backing me there!

5th Edition

Shard Troll Large aberration, unaligned Armor Class 15 (natural armor) Hit Points 104 (11d10 + 44) Speed 30 ft. Str 23 (+6) Dex 8 (-1) Con 18 (+4) Int 8 (-1) Wis 13 (+1) Cha 8 (-1) Skills Athletics +9, Perception +4 Damage Resistances piercing, slashing Senses passive Perception 14 Languages any one language Challenge 6 (2300 XP) Defensive Shards. An enemy that targets the shard troll with a melee attack while within 5 feet of it and misses takes 7 (2d6) slashing damage. At the start of each of its turns, the shard troll deals 10 (3d6) slashing damage to any creature grappling it. Regeneration. The shard troll regains 10 hit points at the start of its turn. If the troll takes bludgeoning or thunder damage, this trait doesn't function at the start of the troll's next turn. The troll dies only if it starts its turn with 0 hit points and doesn't regenerate. Actions Multiattack. The shard troll makes two melee attacks. Shard Club. Melee Weapon Attack: +9 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 13 (2d6+6) bludgeoning damage plus 7 (2d6) slashing damage. Slam. Melee Weapon Attack: +9 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 13 (2d6+6) slashing damage and the shard troll can grapple the target if it wasn't already grappling a creature (escape DC 17). Until this grapple ends, the target is restrained and the shard troll can't make Shard Club attacks. Thrown Shard. Ranged Weapon Attack: +9 to hit, range 30/90 ft., one target. Hit: 13 (2d6+6) slashing damage and the target must succeed on a DC 17 Dexterity saving throw or the shard embeds itself in the target's body. While it has a shard embedded, whenever the target makes an attack roll it must roll a d4 and subtract the number rolled from the attack roll. As an action a creature may remove the shard. It must make a DC 17 Wisdom (Medicine) check as it does so; on a failure, the target takes 7 (2d6) slashing damage.

13th Age

Shard Troll  6th level wrecker [aberration]  Initiative: +8 Vulnerability: Thunder Shard Club +13 vs. AC - 15 damage. Natural Even Hit: 5 ongoing damage. [Special Trigger] Shard Jab +13 vs. AC - 5 ongoing damage. R: Thrown Shard +11 vs. AC (one nearby enemy) - 10 damage Natural Even Hit: The target takes 5 ongoing damage and is dazed (save ends both) as the shard remains embedded in their body. An enemy can take an action to remove the shard and end the effect, but it must succeed on an appropriate DC 20 skill check as part of removing the shard or else the target takes an additional 10 damage. Defensive Shards: 1/turn as an interrupt action when an enemy misses the shard troll with a melee attack, the shard troll can make a shard jab attack against that enemy. AC 20 PD 20 MD 16 HP 82

[maytheoddshq]

Rio Odair (he/him). District Four Mentor. 128 Victor. Twenty-Four. Noppanut Guntachai.

A conversation with death; 

How to inspire dread: 

Just be yourself. 

We find that works for us, usually. 

  – What was their childhood like?

Rio Styx Odair was born in a victor’s home.

The second one, to be exact. Finnick Odair had no use for two large houses all by himself, so it only came naturally that his son would inhabit the second one. First, his son, then every single person that got added to the ever growing family. Rio was the first grandchild, first out of five. Each and every one of the children was born into luxury, funded by a victor’s salary and virtually nothing to worry about, other than what their weapon at the academy would be.

The sea dulled even the sharp edges of glass with the steady rhythm of its waves. Underwater, long, dark green tresses of sea grass swayed with the movements. Though, with its endless power, not even the ocean managed to round out the sharpest edges of the roughest rocks.

Rio had the sharpest sort of ridges along his pretty smile, though there wasn’t much reasoning for it other than arrogance. His grandfather had won the Hunger Games twice, and by definition, by relation, by blood, that made him practically untouchable. Even as a young child, he sat on the beaches in Four as though he owned every grain of sand and every drop of water that touched upon the land. It would’ve been a rather powerful sight, to see a young boy already so full of confidence, had there not been a thin line between confidence and arrogance that Rio had crossed a long time ago.

He had to set an example for the generations that followed the Odair family, and he’d set a damn good one, just out of principle. Nose held a little higher as he grew into himself, he intended to pave a clear way for his siblings once they followed him to the Academy. Rio was twelve when he signed up, promptly picked up the trident as his weapon of choice because everything had a purpose. Where he set his feet as he walked down hallways, the smiles he sent certain people’s ways, the words he spoke. It felt otherworldly each and every time, to hold out a hand and have people glance at it in wonder simply because of who he was, who he could be.

Carol Eyre was one of those people. He felt easy to impress, a couple years younger and less experienced,  mainly because he was already fighting for his attention with sharp elbows and pointed grins. And nothing satisfied arrogance easier than blatant attention. Rio wanted to reach out and touch, grasp for the clear cut emotion and keep it as close as he could. In the beginning, that came in the form of a hand to hold, almost a little too softly, too gentle to compare to the way they kicked one another to the mats during training sessions in the Academy. The kisses were too soft until Rio bit down onto a lip and Carol reciprocated in kind. That was more like it. Like he could swallow it all up and have it warm his stomach more than nails that scratched at his abdomen as though they wanted to get inside. They fit together in the oddest ways. First, the same sharp weapon, before the younger man switched to something that complimented it and his wit for creating traps. A trident and a net full of razor sharp surprises.

What became apparent rather soon, though, was that the softness of a title like boyfriend and boyfriend worked less and less for them. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t friendly. It was rough, jagged edges digging under skin and leaving marks of pleasure in its wake. And really, it was just about enough. Out in the open turned into discrete. Stones that threatened to break through his window sometimes at night, and a hand clamped over a mouth to keep others from realising that nothing had changed about them, except for the fact that everything had finally fallen into place, the way it was supposed to.

– How did they feel about the games before being reaped?

He’d been born for the Hunger Games. First born son of the first born son of two victors, there had never been any doubt that once the time came, Rio would raise his hand to volunteer. His family seemingly accepted the fact, either out of undying, loving faith, or perhaps a little bit of hope for a problem to resolve. Rio liked to think it was the former, after tireless and hard work (sometimes less hard), he knew he’d be ready soon enough. If he wasn’t already. Those Games had been part of his DNA, deeply rooted in his bones, for all of his life. 

And then, on a shiny and slightly too warm day in July, Rio volunteered for the 128th Hunger Games. 

– What was their trajectory in the arena & how did they win their game?

The Arena was an overcast Town with fog that came and went as it pleased. It was unassuming and normal at the first glance, cosy looking houses with windows frosted from the cold. On the second, it became clear that something was just slightly off. The tributes were launched into the Arena on their usual platforms, ending up in a circular marketplace. Everything looked larger than it was supposed to be in comparison to the twenty four tributes. Many times larger, to be exact. Itself and the inhabitants seemed gigantic to the tributes. Nine lives were lost to the bloodbath. 

I. Rain Storm

A cloud darkened the entire Arena, and moments later, the heavy rainfalls began. Giant puddles formed, and through the dips in the cobblestones the water rushed through like a raging river. Rio was an exceptional swimmer, but not even that would’ve been entirely enough to save him. In the end, it was luck and an especially jagged cobblestone to hold onto. Another tribute was flushed past him, struggling and thrashing in the water. A cannon sounded overhead moments later, almost mixing into the thunder and lighting. The tribute wasn’t struggling anymore after Rio let go of them. 

II. Trespassers

Clothes barely dry and the sky just cleared up, he had found shelter underneath a garden chair on a large lawn. For a night, he was safe, just about enough time to catch his breath and hatch a precarious plan for what could come next. Anything he could’ve thought of barely prepared him for the grumbling and the angry snapping of teeth, though. A giant dog came bounding across the lawn, sending Rio running once more. Three cannons had sounded by the time he finally got rid of the dog that tore a chunk out of his leg.

III. Apple Attack

He was growing quite sick of running, especially because it was extra hard on his aching leg. First there’d been a rough wind sweeping through the streets, and then, the apples, oranges, strawberries and much more came rolling down the stoney paths. More cannons sounded, one of them courtesy of Rio’s curiosity how deadly it would be if someone were to be pushed right in front of a giant apple.

IV. Festival

From one hour to the next, the streets were filled with people rushing to the centre of the town. There was not an inch that wasn’t bustling with the excitement of the festival held in the town square. The tributes were by the feet of the partying population, having to evade the trampling of over excited people. 

V. Pitchfork Hunt

The tributes had been spotted by the people of the town. In no time, they had pitchforks and torches at the ready. It was a signal for the end and if anything, Rio was all for it. Five days in and he was ready for it to be over. All of the tributes were being hunted down by an enraged citizen, and they wouldn’t stop until their designated tribute was dead. A tough fight, and then Rio was lifted up by his arm and shaken around. It tore at skin and muscle, the arm almost ripping off completely. The last thing he could bring himself to do was launch a trident at the giant’s eye. Rio was dropped to the ground. He heard a cannon before he lost consciousness. In that short moment, he made peace with it being fired for him. 

– How were they affected by their experiences in the game?

Winning brought him less joy than he’d thought. Rio was at a loss then, for what he was supposed to do now. Things were mostly the same as they had been before, except now he had the crown he’d always wanted and a shoulder that was held together by metal inserted during surgery after surgery. He had a crown and the scars to show for the victory, but now all he felt was mostly empty and a little lost. 

The reality TV show cameras helped even less, the eager faces of people who wanted to know all the ins and outs of the famous and victorious Odair family. That reality show saw Carol Eyre as a guest star as well. It hurt to have him there, as much as it helped. It fixed nothing, though. The episodes had barely begun to air when Carol volunteered for the Games after Rio’s. All he could do was watch and write petulant, silly little notes in hopes of getting some sort of reaction out of Carol that could make watching this, on screen without being there, bearable. 

– What are they like as a mentor?

He tends to be pissed off easily and overcome by the urge to not care any longer about tributes that he finds to be incapable or hopeless. No matter their complicated dynamic, though, Carol and him made for a good team. In sync and knowing one another’s moves without the other having to comment on them in the first place. He would never admit to it, but being a mentor on his own had been far drearier than even bickering all the time could ever be. 

– Three strengths and three weaknesses;

( + ) skilled, charming, courageous 

( - ) arrogant, reckless, temperamental

PENNED BY: Leo

[fractalcloning]

"Hang on, how is this my fault?" Soji snapped and broke line of sight with Seven et all so she could twist and look back at him. He was looming over her with a jagged, razor sharp piece of twisted metal. He had clearly been prepared to shiv her, but now had started using it to gesture at the room.

"I wasn't the one who hopped up, sealed us in, and then started venting the air!" Soji argued back, hoarse voice bolstered with her sudden acute offense.

Reducing the cart to shrapnel had delayed the officers and, shockingly, had seemed to reset the scenario for everyone involved. Seven made a gesture to the security team and they turned their attention to forcing the doors apart. The farther they wedged them open, the more light and air flooded in, which was great for her. She wanted to yell right back at him and now she could actually see him while she did.

"Sorry," Soji added with a heavy dose of sarcasm and held her hands up in mock surrender, a gesture she had not once offered while they were fighting. "But usually when people find out what I am they tend to try even harder to kill me. Announcing my lineage is not generally my go to--"

"Alright--enough!"

Soji's tirade was derailed as Seven let out a sharp, loud whistle. Soji whipped back around and drew her amrs back up, fully prepared to defend Lore. Seven gave her the most exhausted and unamused look from her place in the doorway. However, to Soji's surprise, she did lower her rifle. "Argue in medbay and stop bleeding everywhere," Seven ordered and stared at Soji in a very pointed way that brooked very little disagreement.

"So…" Soji asked tentatively and Seven let out a heavy sigh.

"I don't have time for this," Seven said, mostly to herself. "Fine. We won't shoot him. He stays off the computer, and you both stop destroying my ship. We'll figure this out later."

"Yeah, sure, deal--" Soji agreed readily and her posture dropped to a tired slouch with her relief. Seven was, in Soji's experience at least, a reliable person with a flexible ethical code. Picard might be hardline about Lore, Crusher was paranoid about everyone, but Seven would let this (and by extension Lore) go. "We're en route to the fleet museum," Seven announced in dry monotone and gestured at the both of them as she left. "Solve this before we get there. I'll be on the bridge." The security officers who'd levered the doors open were making an effort to get a panel on the far wall off, probably looking for the emergency release so they could seal this room. Whatever, their rifles were slung around their backs and powered down, Soji could care less what they were doing. She summarily ignored them and turned back to Lore, mood defused with the power of her relief. And now, without adrenaline, Soji had no idea what to say. "Uh...Hi?" she hazarded. "I'm Soji...I'm a synth and Data was my dad. So you're my uncle. Weird, right?"

Clearly she had not inheirited Data's eloquence.

No answer was forthcoming — oxygen was running low, the effects evident in the girl’s inability to articulate the words that lay on her tongue. Perhaps, she wasn’t as artificial, as enhanced as he’d thought... Nevertheless, his luminescent eyes remained trained on her, as if expecting her to salvage the little oxygen that was still meandering around the room and form an acceptable, but primarily, an intelligible answer. The influx of fresh air that came rushing in, and the ear deafening hiss accompanying it, startled Lore more profoundly than he’d ever dare to admit; he’d been way too preoccupied, with her, with his own impending deactivation, that he’d neglected to heed notice to the reinforcements.

Fiercely, the android pivoted around his axis, facing the Starfleet officers rigged out with an assortment of unfamiliar weaponry — and uniforms, he noted. He tried to compute an adequate course of action, but his positronic brain was still a farrago of thoughts and evocations he’d rather not pay any more attention to. With a cursory look, Lore’s eyes swept the laboratory, seeking a legitimate, or makeshift weapon — he wasn’t picky —, with which he could defend himself, but found none. Of course, he could always resort to flinging furniture around the room, but furniture could be dodged...

A bright light rocketed across the tenebrous room — laser fire... Although Lore was comprised of durable material, he wasn’t particularly eager to discover how years, potentially decades of technological development would affect his carapace and systems. Instead, he simply opted to utilise the girl as an organic, or semi-organic — or whatever-organic — shield and nominate her for his hostage... However, for now, it appeared the girl was... was... What was she trying? Was she trying to protect him? She had stated that she wanted to take him home with her, as if he was a crippled stray dog, suffering from severe malnutrition, huddled uncomfortably in a pool of mud, shivering from the cold in the ditch on the side of the road, and she desperately wished to adopt him...

While the girl busied herself with assaulting a bunch of incompetent Starfleet officers, Lore finally caught sight of an object that could aid him to slash his way out of the hole he’d tumbled into. A long, jagged piece of duranium plating, originating from the bulkhead, lay peacefully on one of the medical beds, up for grabs. He contemplated his proceeding course of action meticulously, discerning Picard’s old man voice croaking in the distance — ew, Picard, the peskiest of human beings... “Lore is dangerous” — hell yeah, he was. Lethal. A force to be reckoned with. Beware, Soji, you little cretin.

Without further ado, the android seized the piece of metal, wielding it like a proper weapon in his nimble digits, an effective tool for lacerating skin and slicing through vital arteries. Filled with blind rage, the android swiftly span back around, intending to drive the point of the metal shrapnel home, deep into Soji’s throat, but his mobility was abruptly suspended when he perceived the downpour of the words that cascaded from her lips; an invisible wall, a non-existent force field, had suddenly erected itself between them, rendering him incapable of executing his improvised attempt at homicide.

Uncle?

For several hydraulic circulations, operating on but a handful of systems, Lore found himself dazed, unable to counteract the process, to circumvent being detained to the degree he presently had been. Uncle... How? Had Data devised this girl, this Soji? who he had just brutally assaulted... How mortifying...

‘Uncle?!’ he spat incredulously, a thin layer of aggression audible in his voice, his stance unaltered, as if all of his servomechanisms had collectively malfunctioned, some sort of synthetic rigor mortis...

If it was true, if she was telling the truth — and judging by the temporary ceasefire, she was —, then he’d been fighting a relative, Data’s progeny... And regardless of his ineradicable resentment for everything that constituted his brother and his associates, his interminable detestation could not be, should not be projected on this girl, android.... He was furious.

‘How dare you withhold that kind of information from me?! What the hell’s wrong with you?! You realise I could’ve killed you, don’t you?!’ he snapped, his chartreuse eyes oscillated down to the metal in his hand, to indicate what he’d had in mind for her, and back. ‘All of this’ — he gestured frantically to his injuries, her own, and the trashed laboratory — ‘could’ve easily been prevented if you’d disclosed this crucial piece of information prior to me deciding that beating you up would be a prudent course of action!’ he added, scowling.

[yandere-daydreams]

Kinktober - Day Eighteen

Prompt: Knife Play

Pairing: Rook/Reader (Twisted Wonderland)

TW: Implied Non-Con, Unhealthy Relationships, Delusional Mindsets, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Blood, Biting, and Threats of Bodily Harm.

Rook didn’t like getting too close to his prey.

He didn’t refuse to, it just wasn’t a preference. He favored bows, snares, spells that allowed him to keep a respectable distance between himself and whatever bleeding, helpless creature he wanted to put out of the misery he’d caused. You should know, you’d felt his eyes on you for weeks before you finally met him, before the love-letters started arriving and he made his first move to lure you into his trap. Although his pursuit had been romantic, even if you could only hope it wouldn’t end with your head mounted on his wall, he’d still treated it like a hunt, still approached you with carefully caution and all the tools he’d need if you proved to be more difficult than he’d assumed. The only difference was that he hadn’t stayed at a distance, with you. 

Because you weren’t prey, were you? He didn’t think you were his prey.

No, he'd manage to delude himself into believing you were his lover.

The blade glinted in the moonlight, silvery steel shining with a dull, luminescent glow that brought just enough light into your bedroom to let you see the curl of Rook’s fingers around the leathery hilt, the spot where the pointed tip broke through your sheets and stabbed into your mattress, rooting itself to rest less than a hair’s width in front of your sensitive, unprotective, vulnerable throat. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this. Technically, you’d had the flat of the same blade pressed against your skin a hundred different times, tracing jagged lines in your thighs or pressing against your chest or threatening to rupture something vital, but he’d always warned you, he’d always asked. He hadn’t, this time. He hadn’t said a word.

As far as he knew, you’d only woken up when he pressed himself against your back. When you hadn’t been able to stop yourself from whimpering as your neck was pushed ever-closer to the razor sharp edge of the knife.

“Do you think this is too much?” It should’ve been a sincere question, but it was hard to take him seriously when his chuckle was only muffled by the nape of your neck, hot breath ghosting over your skin as his free hand snaked around your waist, pulling your hips against his as he shifted, slightly, refusing to let your body separate from his. “Just letting myself into your room gets boring, and I’d hate for you to grow tired of me. Vil says a weapon should never be necessary, but Vil doesn’t know my love as well as I do, does he?”

A weapon shouldn’t be necessary. A weapon wasn’t necessary, not really, but Rook never did things just because he had to. If he ever did something that might hurt you, he did it because he knew it’d make your squirm, because he knew your blood would run cold, because he knew he’d enjoy it.

Because he didn’t care whether or not you enjoyed it, too.

“Rook, I don’t know if--” You spoke quickly, frantically, but your voice was quick to hitch as he teeth sunk into the flesh of your shoulder. It was a shallow bite, dependent on impulse rather than resolve, but that didn’t make the puncture wounds sting any less as he pushed in, it didn’t make it ache any less after he pulled away. “I just don’t know if this is a good idea,” You tried again, attempting to grit your teeth and bare the mild pain. “It seems dangerous--”

“It is dangerous, isn’t it?” Another question that wasn’t really a question, another consultation that was far from a comfort. It might’ve been better if he hadn’t bothered to answer at all. At least then, you might've been able to convince yourself he wasn’t ignoring you on purpose. “I can feel your pulse racing…” He let go of your waist, his hand drifting towards your chest, instead, dipping under your shirt. You scrambled, grabbing his wrist and trying to stop him before he could make things worse, but Rook only laughed, pecking the corner of your jaw as he shook you off. Thankfully, he only seemed to want to press his hand to your chest, a contented hum escaping his lips as he felt your heart attempt to beat its way out of your rib cage. “I didn’t scare you, did I, sweetheart? It’d be such a shame if you started shying away from me, but I doubt I’d be able to pass up the chance to chase you down all over again.”

You wished he wouldn’t say things like that. You really wished he wouldn’t say things like that. It was bad enough he’d become something so rotten, the least he could do was stop himself from ruining the few moments of your relationship you still held dear. You didn’t respond to that. You couldn’t, you weren’t sure how you would, but Rook didn’t seem to care. He was more than happy to toy with the fabric of your collar as his lips found the space behind your ear, the area just above your jugular, all the many sensitive spots he could nip at and mark and abuse, with only your silent complaints standing in his way. You would’ve yelled, if you’d been able to. You would’ve screamed, but with every bit of vile, fatal affection, his knife twisted, its angle growing more precise, and you were shoved slowly, painstakingly slowly, towards his weapon, towards the thing that would slit your throat without the slightest bit of remorse.

Rook couldn’t kill you. Well, he could, but he wouldn’t, right? He claimed to love you, and you knew he believed that he could, so he wouldn’t end your life for one interesting night. You wanted to trust him. You wanted to know your boyfriend wouldn’t do you any real harm. You wanted to, but…

“Please stop.”

The words were meek, more of a mumbled plea than a demand, but for a moment, it seemed to work. For a moment, he pulled away, cooing softly as he dislodged his knife from your mattress, and for a moment, you let yourself think he might actually listen to you, this time.

Then, Rook threw you onto your back, and you had to wonder how long he’d spent waiting for this.

It happened in less than a second. He was behind you, whispering sweet nothings, and then he was on top of you, straddling your waist, his nails raking through your hair and a grin stretching over his lips, all sharp angles and focused eyes and a stare that managed to burn into skin, regardless of the oppressive darkness. “I thought you’d never learn to play along,” He sighed, wistfully, looking down at you with all the carnal fondness of a predator ready to devour its next meal. “Mon cœur always finds a way to surprise me, don’t they?”

You opened your mouth, but you weren’t able to spit anything out, not before his knife was back and pressing against the bottom of your chin, keeping you as quiet and as terrified as you were sure he wished you'd stay.

He’d never liked it when his prey stepped out of line, after all.

[oloreaa]

Vencuyanir Ch. 9 - The Medcenter

Summary: Their first conversation about what happened. A deal. Some first time parenting together thrown into the mix

Words: 8.0k  i KNOW

Warnings: descriptions/treatment of wounds, allusion/inquiry about sexual assault, (past) child abuse, sick and distressed child, hospitals (please let me know if I missed something)

Notes: Hi, hello my friends!! I am overwhelmed by all of the feedback and responses I´ve received, and I want to thank you SO MUCH for it. You are all amazing and I am SO grateful to you. HUGE thanks at @adikaofmandalore​ for all of the logic suggestions and @over300books​ for going over the chapter with me and being endlessly patient. 

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……………

They were in hyperspace, moving towards some planet that the Mandalorian was steering the Razor Crest to. Elana stood in front of the mirror, examining the bruises on her face and arms, covering her skin, and tried to make sense of everything.

Facts first.

She and Bean were captured by the Mandalorian on Arvala-7. Bean was the actual bounty, for which he got a camtono of beskar. He took the payment and got himself a whole new armour made with that beskar. The Mandalorian risked his life to go back and get them away from the Imperials he had originally handed them to.

Speculations second.

The Mandalorian seemed to have taken a liking to them, in some way or another. He also seemed to have regretted giving them away, going to great lengths to rectify that action. He had risked everything in his job in order to rescue them, and now all three of them were probably wanted by the Guild.

Coming to a conclusion.

The Mandalorian, Bean and Elana were stuck together for an indeterminate amount of time, and even though she wanted nothing more than to never see that blasted beskar helmet again, she had to be realistic. If not for her own life, then for Bean's.

Elana knew that she was not suitable to protect Bean. She could not fight, she had nowhere to go, and no one who could help her. The only thing she would be able to do was to pick up jobs and earn enough credits to keep them afloat. But that was something that she could only consider to do for the rest of her life if there was not the issue with Bean being wanted by remnants of the Empire.

Thus, their best chance was, once again, staying with the Mandalorian.

Elana sighed deeply, staring at herself in the mirror. The bruise on her cheek where the stormtrooper had hit her was deep purple, the skin bloody. There were small scrapes all across her face, hopefully they would heal over the next few days. Her skin looked pale, the shadows underneath her eyes almost as dark as the bruises on her face. Gently using the water in the sink to wash away the grime on her face, Elana rubbed the dried and crusty flakes of blood out of her hair line, running her hands carefully through the tangles in her dark strands when she was finished. When she was satisfied with how her wounds were relatively clean, she unscrewed the bacta jar and smeared the cool substance onto her face and her wrists, careful with the sensitive skin. After she was finished, she stepped out of the fresher and saw the Mandalorian sitting on a crate, methodically cleaning one of his blasters. He looked up, and she squared her jaw.

"I think we need to talk," she said, shoulders tense.

The Mandalorian nodded.

"I don't think that I need to tell you what I think of your actions," Elana started off, picking her words carefully, "And you can obviously guess at what happened in that warehouse."

He met her gaze through that impassive beskar helmet, and she felt herself becoming furious.

"Why?" Elana did not care that she had asked this already. She wanted to hear it when he was not trying to constantly brush her off. The Mandalorian was quiet for a long time. "Is this because you want-- my offer?" Her mouth tasted like ash, jaw clenching at the thought of him cashing in the favour of yesterday.

His head whipped up. "No," he said quickly, voice hoarse, "Never that." He sounded so earnest that a part inside her relaxed, but she still could not help but stay wary, arms crossed in front of her chest defensively. "The job had felt off from the beginning," the Mandalorian sighed, a slight shift in his posture the only indicator for Elana that he was uncomfortable. "And when I saw that the bounty was the baby--"

Elana interrupted him, "You did not seem to mind when you dragged us away."

He was quiet again.

"I don't want a full on apology, Mandalorian, though Maker knows we deserve it," she spat, "I want to know if you will give us away again."

"Not to them," he said, voice low.

Elana scoffed slightly. "What a relief."

"I went back because it was wrong. The job, the payment, the bounty were all wrong. I had to go back."

Stepping a bit closer to him, staring down into where his eyes should be, she started to speak, fury burning in her. "You owe me, Mandalorian," she said quietly.

"If you want to be specific, it was me who saved both of you," he pointed out weakly, voice tense.

"Well, think again, tin can, whose fault was it that we needed to be saved?" Elana snarled, "It would have been something entirely different if you would have only turned me in."

His helmet tilted up.

"If it was only me, an adult, it would have been something entirely different," she repeated, "But the actual bounty was Bean. A baby."

The Mandalorian dropped his head down, and she hoped with all her heart that it was shame that crushed on him. She hoped that it would haunt him forever.

"So, I want a deal for you to make up to this." Elana hesitated at that, and turned the points, the logical points over in her head, chewing on her lip. "Isn't there a saying about you bounty hunters? You make the best deal for yourself and survive? Take what you can and make the best out of it?"

The Mandalorian nodded, voice grave, "Yes."

"I'm aware that I am not a fighter," Elana started off, "I am simply a hired caretaker, nothing more. But the only thing I can say about me, that I'm good at? I am a damn good caretaker for that baby." She pointed at the sleeping Bean. "Do you know how abused and neglected that child was when I arrived on Arvala-7? How quick he latched onto me because I would hug him? I will not let him fall into the hands of the Empire because that, that exact thing will happen again."

Elana breathed hard, tears starting to gather in her eyes, but she fought furiously against them. "Bean deserves a childhood, all right? He deserves to have his parents back, deserves to grow up without abuse, deserves to be on his home planet, wherever that is! But I cannot give it back to him. So the only thing I can give him is my love, and I will die before letting Bean become that scared child again. He has already seen too much violence in his life," Elana's voice was becoming thick now, the words coming out raw and jagged, pushed out between shuddering breaths as she tried her best to not simply fall apart in front of the Mandalorian.

Choking off a sob, she pressed a palm onto her face, turning away slightly from the bounty hunter who was watching her silently. "I'm sorry, I--" Elana automatically started to apologise for her outburst, before cutting herself off, squaring her shoulders. She did not owe him anything, she thought viciously, eyes burning, and she gritted her jaw, taking a deep breath to stabilise herself.

"Ever since we left the encampment, we've been dragged around, barked orders at, and I am tired of feeling helpless and looked down upon. So, I want a deal," Elana said, going back to her original point, "I want you to protect us until that Empire business is taken care of." Turning sharply to face him, she cut off what she assumed was protest, "You're a good fighter. You have a ship, you have weapons. And you owe us, both of us," Elana enunciated, "Get us onto some planet, help us find a way to get rid of the bounty on Bean, and then you can kark off again to wherever it is that you came from."

Staring straight at his visor, she could not help her tiny sneer as she gestured at his armour. "I think you've received enough payment to make us worth your while." He said nothing, only clenched his hands into fists.

"Make the best deal, right?" Elana said, knowing that she was looking right into his eyes, "Well, Mandalorian. I'm making the best out of my situation. Looks like my best deal is you."

The Mandalorian exhaled, his modulator crackling. Then, he replied, voice impossibly low: "Deal."

They stared at each other, neither of them willing to look away first, fists clenched at their sides, and only the sound of Bean stirring made them break eye contact.

The little baby sat up, big ears backlit by the light in the cubicle as he frowned at them. With horror, Elana watched as his face scrunched up, and he started to cry, ears almost grazing the floor for how low they hung. Hurrying over to him, leaning into the cubicle and putting him in her arms, Elana shushed him gently, swaying from side to side. All she felt from him was fear, sharp and sour, and images started to flicker across the bond. Of the doctor, of Elana being dragged away, of a huge needle poking into his side, him thrashing around until it got dark.

"Shavit," she whispered, before straightening and frantically pushing up the little one's robe, "Shavit!"

There was an injection point right above his elbow, the flesh swollen, a slightly darker shade than his surrounding skin, the band-aid on it loose from him squirming around.

"Get bacta," Elana heard herself say, voice shaking, "get bacta, now."

She dimly realized how the Mandalorian sprung into action, but she was occupied with checking Bean for other injuries, aware of the way he still sniffled and curled into himself. Tracing her fingers over him gently, Elana did her best to keep thinking happy thoughts at Bean, trying to calm him some.

"Mwa," Bean cooed, looking up tearfully, button nose twitching, and he clutched at her arms. She could feel that it was not something that actually hurt him. It was not an open wound, but it still stung a bit, which made him panic. Elana sighed in relief when it became clear that he was more scared that it would happen again than that he actually felt pain.

"Oh, honey," she murmured at him, "you're such a brave little boy, aren't you?"

The bacta jar appeared in her peripheral sight, and she grabbed at it, unscrewing it as fast as she could. Feeling the Mandalorian hover behind her, she ignored him, and started to carefully peel away the other band-aid. "Get new ones, please," she said on autopilot, fingers already covered in bacta, spreading it out on the green skin of the baby, carefully rubbing it in. Bean had not stopped sniffing, but he was watching her with big eyes now, quieter than before.

He was still scared.

"We're away from that place, okay, honey?" Elana started to say, hoping that her voice would soothe him some, "That nasty doctor can't poke you again, all right?" Huffing out a watery chuckle as he grabbed her arm and pressed his face into it, Elana traced his ears gently with her fingers.

Bandages appeared, and she nodded in thanks without taking her eyes off Bean. Quickly wrapping the wound up, she pressed a peck against the bandaged spot, and smiled at Bean, unable to hide how brittle it was. "You're all fixed up now, sweetpea," Elana said, and pulled his robes down again, scooping him up into her arms, "You don't have to be scared, okay?"

Careful of his arm, she positioned him so Bean could lay his head on her shoulder, a hand on his back, backing away from the Mandalorian who was still hovering behind them. "Thank you," she told the bounty hunter, her cheek pressed into the top of Bean's wrinkled head. Bean started to sniffle and whimper again, and shook, fear still in his limbs and lingering in his head.

"You're all right, honey," Elana told him, whispering it into his large ears, pressing kisses wherever she could reach, while never stopping swaying comfortingly.

Turning to look at the Mandalorian, she sighed deeply.

"I still have things I've got to say," Elana said quietly, mindful of Bean, "There are things that still need to be addressed."

He nodded. "That's understandable," he said, his voice rough.

Elana continued: "If we are going to be travelling together until we're on a safe planet, I need boundaries. There will be some general rules we need to establish otherwise this won't work."

"Of course," he agreed, voice so soft she had difficulties picking it up through the crackle of the modulator.

"I'm not looking for a fight, and I do not want to associate with you longer than I have to, and I'm pretty sure that the feeling is mutual," Elana said quietly, looking at the Mandalorian. "I'm only doing this for him," she added, bopping Bean gently for emphasis, and he nodded.

"Can I help?" The Mandalorian asked, surprising her. She blinked in bewilderment. "Uh, if you could set up the cot…?"

If there was a record for how quick a Mandalorian got the cot propped up for them, then he probably just broke it. As soon as he was finished, he pulled himself up in the cockpit with a "Be right back".

When Elana settled down on the cot, the Mandalorian reappeared, dropped down from above and landed quietly. There were dark blankets tucked underneath his arm, and he handed them to her.

"For Bean," he said, and she took them, biting her lips in uncertainty and looked away.

"If there is something like a crate or anything we can use as a makeshift pram? Do you have anything like that?"

"Wait," was all he said, before he moved around her, grabbed the smallest crate in the hull, and took out the tools that were in there before. Putting those into another crate, he presented it to her.

She took it, put it on the floor, and started to methodically pad it with the blanket. Using the leftover flaps to tuck Bean in, she set the crate right next to the cot, and turned to the Mandalorian.

"Would it be all right if we could get to a market in the next few days?" Elana asked before hesitating, "There are things that Bean would need, and I'm not sure if the Crest has all of them."

The Mandalorian nodded. "Sure," he said.

Bean was starting to slip into sleep now, but some sniffles still escaped him, and it was with a heavy heart that Elana traced his little face with a careful finger, using the bond to wrap him in a bundle of warmth, able to draw actual comfort out of her knowledge that they were safe now. They were actually safe for the moment. The bounty hunter hovered around in her peripheral vision, and Elana turned around, facing him, Bean's eyes now closed and his breaths even. The two of them stared at each other for a moment.

Elana hesitated, before adding what was lingering in her mind, resting on the tip of her tongue. "Thank you," she whispered, blinking fast as she felt herself tearing up again, "Thank you for coming back for us."

His head whipped up, body language showing his incredulity. It was quiet between them, and even though Elana did not regret her words, for he actually deserved the thanks, since he had risked everything by rescuing them, and it could not be taken back now. The words hung in the air, fragile like a silk thread, exposing more of Elana than she would have liked.

"... You're welcome," the Mandalorian finally said, and she was astonished at how wrecked he sounded. Maybe he truly regretted it. Maybe it was eating him up inside. A part of her wished for it. Another part was too tired to care.

"I think I'll get some sleep now," she mumbled, leaning against the edge of the cot, "That stuff from before... I don't know what it was."

"I can take you to a medcenter if you want to," the Mandalorian offered quietly, "Then you can also get a checkup for Bean."

Elana nodded, resisting the urge to sigh heavily. "That would be brilliant," she heard herself say, tilting her face so she could look him in the eyes.

"I'm sorry," he then said, before he dropped to one knee, head lowered while Elana stared at him in astonishment, eyes wide, "For everything. For how I treated you." The voice of the Mandalorian was so soft that she had difficulty picking out the words, but they struck something in her that she had no time to analyse while he was in front of her.

"I don't deserve forgiveness," he continued, words coming out haltingly, the edges jagged, "What I did on Arvala-7-- on Nevarro-- there are no excuses. But I'm sorry." His head was still lowered, the sound crackled through the modulator, and she could not decipher if it was his voice or his vocal filter that made it crack like that, "I'm sorry."

Elana felt her bottom lip wobble, and with horror she realised that her eyes were stinging with tears. Squeezing her eyes shut, she took a deep breath, and clenched her fists, feeling her nails dig into her palms. "We can talk about this tomorrow," she managed, voice thick, "I can't-- I can't think right now."

"All right," he whispered, "Take your time."

Elana swallowed and looked away, heart clenching and she felt as if she could not breathe properly.

The Mandalorian said nothing, just nodded once, before standing up stiffly. As he lingered for a moment, she could hear the leather gloves creak, him flexing his fingers, but then he left without a word, pulling himself up into the cockpit.

Elana stared behind him, feeling uncomfortably, inexplicably conflicted. She sat down on the cot, the baby starting to snore quietly, and just closed her eyes, resting them for a bit. Whatever it was that the Imperials had given her was still in her system, but other than sleepiness and limbs that were starting to become impossibly heavy, nothing seemed to be out of place. She could only hope that it would be the same with Bean, that whatever they had injected him with would not make him sick afterwards. It was still too early to see if it had any lasting effects on the baby. Elana found the backpack with her clothes where she had put it last, luckily having forgotten to take it when they arrived on Nevarro. After tugging out a comparatively clean set of loose clothes and putting it on, she laid down on the cot and pulled the blanket over herself. It was not long until she fell asleep, but the apology of the Mandalorian rattled in her brain for as long as she was conscious.

~

Something was making noises next to her, waking her up. Elana blinked groggily, turning her head towards the noise. It was Bean, she realised, standing in the crate in front of her, arms outstretched towards her.

"Honey?" Elana whispered, and the baby scuttled closer. Bean gave a low whine, and she frowned, sleepy. Reaching out with an arm, she pulled him onto her cot, letting him crawl into her side. He snuggled into her shirt, and whined again, sounding pitiful. "Honey," she murmured, "what's wrong?"

When Bean climbed up on her chest, and pressed his face into her neck, she was instantly wide awake.

He was burning up.

"Bean?" Elana asked, heart suddenly pounding in her chest, "Oh no."

Carefully sitting up, a hand on his back to support him, she inspected the little child. Elana felt her heart drop as she looked at his glassy eyes and droopy ears, the usual green colour of his face looking faded. The tips of his ears, where the skin was usually pale pink, was a slight yellow instead. Across the bond she could feel him having a headache and a hurting tummy.

"Baby, sweetpea," she whispered, tilting him against her chest, slightly bouncing him, hand splayed across his back. Pressing his nose into her collarbone, he whined again, and Elana looked up, up to the ladder leading to the cockpit.

Should she?

If Bean's temperature rose too high, it could be dangerous for him, and with how bad he looked and felt over the bond, it would not be long until he needed immediate medical attention. Medical attention she could not give him.

Searching her feelings, knowing that she did not have any supplies, she felt her heart starting to race. Should she ask the Mandalorian? Listening to the child's whimpers, her decision was quickly made. Not even bothering to make herself more presentable, she clutched Bean close to her and climbed up the ladder with one hand. Walking around the opening, barely visible in the dim orange emergency light, towards the captain's quarters, she stood in front of the closed door. Elana hesitated again, staring at the grey durasteel.

Even though there was not any reason now to fear him, it was basically hard wired into her at this point. Rationally she knew that he would not go through all the trouble to rescue them and then kill them now, but emotionally she was still terrified of the bounty hunter, no matter if she talked back sometimes or put on a brave face.

But when she felt Bean starting to cry into her, little body trembling, she knocked resolutely at the surface. It was quiet at first, so she knocked again. Recalling how he had slammed her into the ground when she had tried to lift his helmet on Arvala-7, she figured that she should not barge into his quarters where he was likely sleeping without it.

"What?" The Mandalorian's voice sounded from inside, slurred from sleep.

She knocked again, more urgently, biting her lip as she shifted the baby in her arms. "Mandalorian?" Elana asked, face close to the door as she tried to listen to what was happening inside the room.

There was a low groan and some mutterings before steps sounded towards the door. When it opened with a hiss, Elana flinched back when the helmet basically appeared inches away from her face, the Mandalorian hunched down to stare at her smaller frame.

Even without the full beskar armour strapped to him, he had the same commanding presence, and his gloves and boots were clearly tugged on while he was half asleep, tiny bits of skin poking out here and there. "What is it?" he asked, stance intimidating but his voice soft.

"I need your help," Elana said, staring imploringly at the visor, "Bean is burning up."

It was as if a switch was turned, and his scrutiny shifted to the small child whose face was buried in her shoulder, and he gave off a pained whine just in that second. The Mandalorian's posture loosened some, even if the tension was still thick enough to cut with a knife.

"What's wrong with him?" The Mandalorian inquired, still sounding a bit rough from sleep.

"He has a fever, and he's in pain. I think whatever the Imperials have given him is making him sick," she said, shifting Bean up on her body again as he wriggled, unsatisfied with that position. Looking down at him in worry, she noted that his eyes were brimming with tears, and his face started to scrunch up, a pathetic wail tearing out of his little lungs.

"Do you have a medpack? A fever shot?" Elana asked the Mandalorian who was leaning in the door, watching them, clearly tense and uncomfortable.

He was quiet, the only sound between them Bean's sobs, before he sighed. "Let me check," the bounty hunter said, pushing past her, and starting to climb down into the hull of the ship. Elana stayed where she was, swaying on the spot, whispering and humming into Bean's petal soft ears. She gently rubbed his back as he cried, becoming louder by the second. "Oh, honey," she whispered, pressing a kiss on top of his forehead, biting her lip anxiously.

He sobbed harder, pressing his face into her shoulder while she did her best to stroke him across the back, hoping that the gesture would comfort him some. After a few unbearable minutes, the Mandalorian appeared again, pulling himself up to their level.

"I only have a med pack for open wounds," he said, voice tense.

Elana closed her eyes, and exhaled in dismay. "Shavit," she muttered, a frown on her face.

Studying her, the Mandalorian tilted his head, and sighed deeply. "Hold onto him," came from him, and he moved into the cockpit, the door opening with a hiss. She trailed after him, confused, feeling the wet patch in her shirt where Bean's face was buried growing. The pain that was projected over the bond did nothing but to make her more anxious.

The Mandalorian sat down in the pilot's seat and started pushing buttons, reaching up to flick some switches. Continuing rocking Bean, she sat down in the left seat, holding on as they dropped out of hyperspace, the sudden motion making Bean cry out. The Mandalorian did not waste a moment, looking at the navigation system, and punched in some coordinates.

"I'm taking you to a medcenter," he said, voice low, skillfully swerving the ship around to another direction, and entering hyperspace once again.

At the shift in the G-force Bean whimpered, and Elana held him close, cradling the back of his head as she gently positioned it onto her shoulder. As soon as the ship was stable, the Mandalorian stood up and disappeared again, dropping down into the hull with a loud bang. Looking after him, the twist of her body made Bean unhappy, so she quickly turned back, humming gently at him. He was exhausted but still kept crying, feeling too uncomfortable to rest.

Sleep, she told him over the bond, but he whined in protest, the unnatural warmth making him feel dizzy. Sleep, Elana repeated again, more firmly, and to her surprise, he actually fell asleep. When the Mandalorian climbed up again, he handed her an ice pack wrapped in a washcloth, and she accepted thankfully, gently pressing it against the burning forehead of the little child.

Both of them looked down at the sleeping baby in her arms, heartbreakingly pale.

"We'll be at a medcenter soon," the Mandalorian said quietly, and she looked up, right into his visor, and clenched her jaw.

"Okay," she whispered, giving him a serious nod. Only when he stepped away and sat down into the pilot's seat she realized how close he had been, and her hold on Bean tightened.

"Drop out of hyperspace in fifteen minutes," he announced after a while of staring at the navicomputer, pressing some buttons, "Put on some warmer clothes."

With those words, he stood up, and made his way into the captain's quarters, presumably to strap his armour on. It was terrifying how he still looked as broad and tall without the armour as with it. Getting down into the hull carefully, and placing Bean into the pram for the time being, she quickly braided her hair, keeping it out of the way, putting on actual clothes. As she tied the laces on her boots, Bean started to cry again, not yet waking up but right before it. Scooping him up, she climbed into the cockpit and settled into the left seat again, rocking Bean while she hummed a low tune.

The Mandalorian appeared after a while, his new shiny beskar armour glinting in the light, and he carefully approached them, checking on Bean from where he was resting his head on her shoulder. It was quiet for a beat. "He looks a little pale," the Mandalorian pointed out, sounding tense, "Has he showed other worse symptoms yet?"

"No," she whispered, eyes on the worrying yellow-looking baby, "I hope it stays that way."

Dropping out of hyperspace, a station appeared in front of them, and she let out a sigh of relief, noticing that there was not too much traffic. The less people there are, the less likely that there are other bounty hunters. Even though it had not even been a few hours since Nevarro, she did not think that it was paranoid to already look for potential hunters after Bean, and she was sure that the Mandalorian would agree if she asked him.

He maneuvered the ship into the right lanes; it did not take long until the Razor Crest was landed safely.

"Come on," the Mandalorian said, powered the ship off, and turned towards her. Moving quickly, he went past her, and was already halfway down the ladder when she stood up. Reaching his arms up at her, he motioned for Elana to reach Bean to him. She raised a brow at the Mandalorian.

"Give him to me," he said, and motioned again. Hesitantly, she extracted Bean from her shirt, and reached him down, the Mandalorian gently wrapping his hands around the baby, holding him securely. As she descended the ladder, he held Bean in his arms, and the little one whined, pressing his face against the beskar plate.

An idea came to her. "Use your armour to cool him down some," she told him, quickly grabbing a satchel, stuffed a blanket and the water bottle into it, "Do you have credits with you?"

"Yes," he answered, looking a bit bewildered with the baby in his arms, a cheek smushed against his chestplate. Elana nodded determinedly, and pressed the button to lower the side ramp. "Let's go," she said.

They quickly left the ship, and went into an open foyer, the cold light of the sterile place uninviting. Making a straight line to the receptionist's desk, she stopped in front of it. A Cerean male held up a finger at her, gesturing for her to wait with a small perfunctory smile, and finished up his call. "Good day, welcome to Naamel medcenter, how can I help you?" His tone was bored, and he did not even look up.

"We have a sick child," Elana said, "He has had a fever for a few hours now."

"A nurse will come to you in a moment, please go to the waiting room down the hallway, and register yourself."

The Mandalorian stepped closer, and stared down at the receptionist. "No identification," he said. The Cerean looked up, and then did a double take, eyes widening at the sight of the warrior.

"Of course, sir," he was quick to stammer, his eyes darting between the Mandalorian, Bean and her, and he pressed a button on his desk connected to a visible comlink.

"We have a high priority case, please get to it as soon as possible," he spoke into it, before giving them a nervous smile and pointed towards the room they were supposed to wait in. The Mandalorian stalked past the desk, Bean in his arms, and Elana was quick to follow after she shot a polite parting nod at the receptionist.

"That was the fastest response I've ever seen at a medcenter," Elana told him as she caught up to him, a slightly wry smile on her face.

The Mandalorian huffed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Mwa," Bean said, stretching out a hand towards her as they entered the empty waiting room. Elana stepped close to the Mandalorian, both of them working together in transferring the baby from his arms into hers. In no time at all Bean was resting his head on her shoulder again, a big frown on his face, eyes teary, "Eh?"

"It won't take long now, okay?" Elana reassured him, patting him on his back, "A few minutes at most, sweetpea."

The Mandalorian was tense, and every time someone walked past the room his hand twitched towards his weapon holster.

"Keep your hand off your blaster, for Maker's sake," Elana hissed at him through clenched teeth, his behaviour setting her off, pacing around the sterile room. The only reprieve for the cold white paint was a potted plant in one corner and a framed painting of an underwater garden on the wall.

"No," the Mandalorian told her, fingers curling around the weapon. Elana took a deep breath in annoyance and glared at him.

"This is a medcenter, so: Keep your hands off."

"He's still being hunted," he said, looking at her.

"Bean getting treated is more important now, and I don't think the staff would treat him if you insist on being trigger happy," Elana said, voice dry. As if to help her point, Bean sobbed loudly, and she started rocking him gently again, pressing kisses against his forehead, not liking how yellow he looked at all. "Honey, just a bit, okay? You're such a strong baby," she told him, swaying from side to side, "We're gonna get you fixed up in no time at all."

"Mwa," he said, burying his button nose into her soaked shirt.

A Mirilian nurse came in, a med droid on her heels. The Mandalorian tensed instantly. "No droids," he told the nurse without preamble, and Elana's head whipped around to him. Was he being serious? Not only was that rude, but they could not afford being difficult. The nurse stared at him, clearly tired from a long day and dealing with difficult patients.

"Look, sir," she said, sighing heavily and kneading between her eyes, "We are understaffed as hell, and if you want a check in, you'll have to accept the droid."

Elana stepped closer to him, face set in a frown.

"We are not leaving until Bean gets treated," she hissed at the Mandalorian, before pushing past him and talking to the nurse herself, effectively ignoring him.

"Excuse him, miss," Elana said, "We need a check up, and something to lower his fever, I'm worried at how fast he got this bad."

The urgent words were underlined by Bean whining and starting to wail again, his sobs heartbreaking.

The Mirilian raised a brow at the Mandalorian, disapproval in her eyes. "I mean no disrespect, sir, but you're in no position to be picky about the staff. If your child looks as bad as this, I would suggest listening to your wife and letting a droid handle this."

"She's not my wi--" The Mandalorian started to say, while at the same time Elana injected: "He's not my husba--"

The nurse raised a brow, and held up a hand. "That's unimportant. You have a sick child, so let Bee-Two take a look at the baby."

Elana gave the Mandalorian a nasty look. "Yeah," she drawled, voice venomous, "Let the droid look at him now."

He sighed heavily. Bean was still crying.

"Ma'am, please go down that hallway, Bee-Two will accompany you to room A4," the nurse directed and turned around, hurrying to another patient.

Elana smiled at the med droid. "Thank you very much," she said, ignoring the annoyed huff of the Mandalorian.

"Please follow me," Bee-Two said, and started to walk towards the room the nurse had assigned them to.

"What is wrong with you?" Elana asked the Mandalorian, brows furrowed and daggers in her eyes.

"I don't like droids," was his short answer.

Elana scoffed. "Yeah, kriff. I can see that."

"Cut it out," he snapped at her, voice low, as tense as a springboard.

"You cut it out," she snarled, her last bit of patience snapping, "Stars, get yourself together."

The med droid led them into a small, brightly lit room, and gestured to the examination desk in the middle. "Please put the baby on this. I will perform a scan," it instructed, and Elana quickly did as it said. Bean whined as she set him down, claws outstretched to her, bottom lip wobbling. "Mwa," he called out with a sniffle, "Mwa."

Reaching over the bond, she wrapped him in a warm bundle of love, hoping that it would calm him down some. Letting him hold onto one finger, she looked up at the med droid. "Please step back. You can let him hold onto your hand," the droid said, and took out a big complicated looking scanner.

Something clicked ominously behind her, and when she turned her head, Elana saw the Mandalorian, blaster in hand.

"Stop that," she told him, this close to ringing his bell so hard he would have a concussion.

Bee-Two scanned Bean with a blue light, and then switched to a red light. "He has increased temperature that is above the normal range of his body," the droid announced, "Can you tell me what species this child is so I can make a better prediction of his recovery? Or is he a hybrid?"

Elana shook her head. "I don't know what he is," she answered, biting her lip.

"Very well. Going by the symptoms and readings of other humanoid species, then." With a whirr, it ran a diagnostic.

"Quite an amount of blood had been extracted from him, but it's nothing to be worried about. He will be fine in a few days with some rest. But there are substances I cannot identify accurately in his bloodstream," the droid said, and it was as if an icy hand wrapped around her heart. She stared at the droid, feeling her stomach drop.

"Are they dangerous, though?" Elana got out, sounding choked.

"From what I can tell, no. They do not bind to cells or are actively destroying them."

"Could you run a deeper scan?"

The droid whirred again, cocking its head in an uncanny way, before nodding once. "Very well," it said, "This might take a few minutes." Rolling towards a large, white device, it started to press buttons and prepare it while Elana and the Mandalorian watched anxiously. Bean whimpered, claws digging into her shirt, ears hanging low. She gently smoothed over them, hoping that soft touches were calming for him.

As soon as a green light started to blink, the droid turned around, and held its hand out towards Bean. "May I?"

Ignoring the Mandalorian behind her who audibly tensed, she placed the child into the droid's arms, and even though it hurt her heart to see the little child stretching his little arms to her, whining loudly, Elana knew that it was necessary.

The droid rolled over to the device, beeping in a soothing manner, and placed him onto the scanner. Glancing over her shoulder to the Mandalorian, her lips pursed as she saw that his hand was still hovering over the blaster. Giving him a look and a sign to put it down, Elana turned around again, and crossed her arms while waiting for the results of the scan.

"Why are you so tense?" Elana asked the Mandalorian in a low voice, "Because of the med droid?"

He said nothing, but tilted his helmet slightly.

"Are you serious?" Looking at him, not trying to judge, but understand, she furrowed her brows. "Why?"

He stepped closer, and it sounded as if he spoke through gritted teeth when he said: "Droids are unpredictable."

"Droids are helpful," Elana pointed out as Bee-Two beeped happily, probably having some toddler-appropriate programming installed in its software, and finished the scan.

"The substances are non toxic and should not cause any more damage than the fever," Bee-Two explained, "Once the fever is down, he will be completely healthy again."

"Thank the Stars," Elana exhaled, feeling like a weight had dropped from her heart.

"I can administer a fever shot so he will be able to sleep, he is not in a critical stage but with small children it can change rapidly."

"Do it, please." Chewing her lip, Elana watched as the droid left the room, presumably going to collect the shot.

Moving towards the table where Bean was lying on his back, Elana reached out a finger for him to grasp, and smiled at the little one. Mumbling encouraging praises and promises at him, the toddler was calmer than before, looking at her with big, dark eyes, the depth in them stunning.

Bee-Two rolled back, holding a tiny syringe, and it administered the shot to Bean quickly, the baby whimpering at the prick. "You can pick him up now. The procedure is complete," the med droid said, and she flashed it a thankful smile as she scooped Bean up.

He immediately clawed himself into her shirt, snuggling into her and burying his face in her shoulder. A quiet "Mwa" came from him as his fingers tightened to a point where it was almost painful.

"Shh, honey," Elana whispered and pressed a kiss on his left ear, "You can sleep now."

"Can you check on her as well?" Her head whipped around when she heard the Mandalorian voicing his request through gritted teeth.

The droid beeped once, before strolling over to her.

"Hand the child to your partner, please, I will give you a check-up," it said, and after a quick look at the bounty hunter, she placed the sleepy Bean into his arms. He instantly curled against the silver chestplate, ears turned to the back. She could feel the way Bean's mind slowly got fuzzy as the shot started to work, the fever lowering. The Mandalorian gave her a nod.

"Take your time," he said, somewhat awkwardly, "I'll wait outside."

Elana did not want to leave him completely alone with Bean, but she figured that it would probably be fine. If he bolted, Bean would bite him for her, she reasoned with herself, and since there was nothing to be done about it, she gave him an accepting nod.

The Mandalorian moved outside through the door that hissed open, and she could hear how Bean sleepily babbled at him.

Elana turned and faced the droid, before sitting onto the examination desk, her legs dangling on from the height. Bee-Two started to look over her, and its eyes focused on her cheek first, and then her wrists.

"Have you been recently freed?" It asked, and to be honest, she could not even blame it for the question. Elana was very aware how she must look like an escaped slave, especially in the Outer Rim.

"Something like that," Elana said, looking away.

"Do you have an implant?"

"Only standard ones, no trackers," she admitted.

"Have you been injured?" Bee-Two asked, its voice kind, "Are you in need of any specific testing, such as pregnancy tests?"

"No, none of that sort," Elana said, feeling a lump in her throat at the thought, slightly nauseous. Thank the Stars that the Mandalorian had never made any kind of advances on her, and that nothing had happened in the safehouse, probably due to Dr. Pershing.

The med droid beeped, and nodded. "That is pleasant to hear. I will run a scan on you now, and determine the extent of your wounds." Elana held still as it performed the procedure, and listened to it as it listed her various bruises, scrapes and wounds, commenting on the treatment that she had given herself already.

"I will administer a bacta spray on your wounds, they will heal you in a matter of hours. Be warned, older wounds might scar even with the treatment." Elana looked down at her wrists, and suppressed a sigh. There were worse scars to have, she told herself, and gave the droid a nod.

The bacta spray was cool as it misted her skin, and it smelled sharp and sickly sweet. Her skin tingled as the spray set itself onto her wounds, starting to become numb. Sitting up straight, Elana let the droid handle the cuts and scrapes that have already been looked after, letting it apply a new layer of bacta on her skin. Some of the bruises on her back the droid could reach better than she did, and it was a relief to have those treated as well. It did not take long until Bee-Two finished with a happy beep, and rolled back.

"All finished up," it told her with a little whirr, and the eye pieces moved in a way to indicate a smile. Elana automatically smiled back, and she stood up from the desk, her wrists fully numbed. When she peered at it, she could already see skin rebuilding itself. "This is amazing," she whispered, an awed smile on her face.

"Should I call your partner back in?" Bee-Two inquired, and Elana wanted to sigh, but it would be too much of a hassle to correct the assumption, so she nodded.

"Thank you," she said, and tugged on her sleeves, rolling the fabric down. The door opened with a hiss, and she could see how the Mandalorian had been standing right in front of it, arm curled around the little child, hand hovering over his blaster. He turned his head towards them, and his shoulders dropped with an exhale. Elana gave him a hopefully reassuring smile as she moved towards him, standing straight.

The Mandalorian stiffly thanked the med droid and placed some credits in its hand, Bean almost asleep against him. Before she knew it, he had pressed a hand between her shoulder blades in a not-so-subtle way to get her to move again. Elana glared at him, but chose not to comment, and when he pushed her down the hallway, she turned her head and called out a "Thank you!" to Bee-Two, who beeped back, his robotic hand waving in goodbye.

"We're going back to the ship," the Mandalorian said, and pushed a bit more.

She threw him the dirtiest look she could manage. "I can walk by myself, don't touch me."

He immediately put his hand away, but was still using his body to crowd against Elana, forcing her to walk faster, clearly wanting to get back to the Razor Crest as soon as possible.

On their way back, Bean quietly sniffed from time to time, but he was regaining some of his usual colour. After a short transfer of the baby from his arms into hers, Elana pressed her lips against the little one's temple to take his temperature, and was satisfied when he did not feel as hot to the touch as before. Elana held him close, the warmth and the weight of the baby comforting, and the relief of him being better making her feel giddy. Arriving at the port after a quick check-out, they made their way to and ascended the ramp of the old gunship.

As soon as they were safely inside, and the lock of the ship hissed, the Mandalorian disappeared into the cockpit to start the ship. The Crest lifted shortly after, and it was not long until the jerk and sudden roar of hyperspace alerted her to them being out of reach of the station.

Bean was sleeping now, his adorable snores soothing her frayed nerves, cooing at whatever dream he had behind those closed eyelids. Smiling at him, she gently stroked his little cheek, and felt her own exhaustion of an interrupted sleep set in. The Mandalorian dropped down again, but she was too tired to even flinch at the sudden movement.

"He's all right?" The Mandalorian asked, voice gentle, and he motioned to Bean. Not bothering to actually answer, she just made a "mhh" and nodded, her eyes starting to slip shut. He offered a folded blanket to her which she took wordlessly with a nod. "He will sleep like a rock," she said, and shot him a small smile.

"Good," he said, and tilted his helmet at her, "How are you?" His voice was unexpectedly gentle.

Elana glanced down, and was surprised to see that most of the redness had receded, the wound still steadily closing. "Looks nice," she said, her lips curving up once again, "Thank you for taking us to the medcenter."

"It was nothing," the Mandalorian said quietly, helmet downturned, and he took a step back, giving her space.

It wasn't, though.

And both of them knew that.

……………

Thank you for reading!!❤